


An Alliance Commander in King Thorin's Cohort

by Merkwerkee



Category: Mass Effect, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Biotic Shepard, Fix-it Destroy Ending, Hobbits, M/M, Middle Earth, Paragon Commander Shepard, Post-Destroy Ending, Tags may be updated as work continues, The Shire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9283415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merkwerkee/pseuds/Merkwerkee
Summary: This fic combines Mass Effect, the Hobbit movies, and a rather interesting article I read about data storage a couple months ago. It's a sort-of fix for the Destroy ending in Mass Effect wherein hope isn't lost for EDI and the Geth, and a Vanguard Commander Shepard is about to go on one hell of an unexpected adventure





	1. Hope

“Commander, you have a new message at your private terminal.”

 

Traynor's familiar voice barely punctuated the exhaustion that hung on Shepard like a shroud. Killing the Reaper had been hard; Legion's choice afterward had been harder. In its own way, Legion's sacrifice was harder than Ash's death on Virmire had been. On Virmire he'd been fighting for his life and the lives of his crewmates against Saren and his Geth, pinned against the bomb with Kaidan at his back. Saren had been to blame and killing him had been justice for Ash – though nothing would ever quite make up for the choice he'd made, and he'd live with it for the rest of his life.

 

Here, Legion had made his own choice in the full knowledge of the consequences of his actions. There was no-one to blame, and no way Shepard could have saved him.

 

That was the part that hurt the worst.

 

Still, Shepard could hardly begrudge Legion for choosing his species over his own life – after all, Shepard had done it before and was likely to do it again – but losing a friend still hurt like an open wound. His only consolation was that, if he failed to defeat the Reapers, it would not hurt for long.

 

“Commander?” Traynor's concerned voice broke through Shepard's thoughts as the specialist waved a hand in front of his face. He gave her a perfunctory smile as he gently pushed her hand away from his face. “I'm fine, Traynor. Just tired.” He forced a tired chuckle that he doubted would fool anyone. “Killing a Reaper really takes it out of you. Nothing a nap won't fix.” She nodded dubiously, clearly not buying it for a minute but willing to let the matter go for now. Shepard was thankful; he'd had plenty of analysis-by-yeoman from the flunky Cerberus had stuck him with, and couldn't deal with more of that nonsense right now.

 

He returned her nod and headed for the elevator, each footstep only just this side of a stumble. Tali and Kaidan had gone on ahead of him and he ended up waiting for the lift to return. Fortunately, the SR1's glacially slow system had been one of things to get an upgrade on the SR2 and he wasn't left waiting for long – if he'd had to wait for the SR1's elevator, he'd have fallen asleep right there on the deck. In less than five minutes he was in his quarters, wearily stripping out of his armor.

 

Collapsing into his desk chair clad in nothing but his (admittedly smelly) underarmor, Shepard prodded the activation sequence to the terminal on his desk. The first thing in his inbox was another story from Allers, and he skimmed it dutifully without really reading any of it. An update from Hackett was marked for later reading when he could actually think and missives from both Tali and James about visiting were approved after just reading the titles.

 

He raised his eyebrows at the next message, the title jumping out at him even through the grey fog trying to press in on his eyes. _So, I heard you saved the Geth_ from a sender he didn't recognize. EDI and Traynor usually colluded on keeping his inbox free from spam or fanmail, only letting through those they felt were worth his attention or a particularly good laugh. Despite the unprepossessing title both people must have felt it worth reading so he supposed he ought to read it.

 

He opened the message.

 

_Dear Commander Shepard,_

 

_Hi! We've never been formally introduced, but I saw you briefly when you rescued the lot of us from Cerberus. I'm one of the scientists you rescued from Arrae, and I'd just like to send you a big “Thank you!” from all of us._

 

_But that's not really why I'm writing. In addition to being one of the scientists you rescued from Cerberus, I'm also one of the main programmers from EDI's development project – the one who tipped her over into true artificial intelligence, in point of fact. Not exactly what I was aiming for but a good result nonetheless, hey?_

 

_Anyway, I've been working on the Crucible project with the rest of the best and some of the functionalities have got me rather concerned about life after Reapers (because I'm an optimist at heart). So I went and did some research in what laughingly might be termed as my “free” time._

 

_During my graduate studies I actually found some interesting technology from the early 2000s that sort of fell by the wayside when humanity discovered the mass relays. I looked into it briefly then but, well, grad school life doesn't actually leave time for studying for pleasure._

 

_Anyway I looked back into this stuff and it's solid. Literally, in point of fact; it's a way of encoding data into the crystalline structure of quartz. I just looked into it idly in grad school but now I've gotten it working. Well, working better anyway; the only reason they didn't continue the research back in the day is that they couldn't miniaturize the necessary lasers to the point of practical portability._

 

_Ironically it only took me like, four days to get the lasers small enough for economy. With the help of some of my besties at the Crucible, of course. :D_

 

_We've tested the tech thoroughly by encoding several databases as well as everything we've learned about the Crucible thus far – just in case, you know how it goes. We'll stash those someplace safe that the next cycle can find as a precaution but that's not all I want to do._

 

_Basically, my idea is to imprint backups of EDI and as many Geth as I can into these crystals – the data would have a shelf life of, oh, fourteen billion years. If the Crucible should happen to do what I think it does, all of them could be resurrected using the backups and all would be – if not well with the world – then at least somewhat better._

 

_I'd like to come aboard to make a back-up of EDI. Just reply to this message with the next time you're headed to the Citadel and I'll pop onboard for a few hours to make the record. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy!_

 

_Yours Truly,_

 

_Eleanora Frendsehn_

 

Shepard read and re-read the missive several times before leaning back and rubbing his eyes. While on the face of it the request seemed innocuous enough, but Gavin Archer had also been among the scientists on Arrae and Shepard would gouge out his own eyes before letting that monster anywhere near _his_ ship ever again.

 

Letting his hands rest over his eyes, he addressed the ceiling where EDI's microphones were always listening. “EDI. You wouldn't have let it through if you didn't think I should read it. What's your opinion?”

 

There was a noticeable pause before EDI answered, and her voice echoed over the speakers in such a fashion as to suggest that she was probably speaking from her platform on the bridge and that anything said would be heard by Joker. “I do remember the scientist in question, Shepard. While somewhat scatterbrained and easily distracted, her work is exemplary. Her records previous to Cerberus' employment of her and her psychological profile suggest that the offer is being made in earnest.”

 

Shepard dragged his hand down his face slowly before leaning forward in his chair. “Joker, I know you're listening. Set course for the Citadel and don't give me any shit about going down to the galaxy map to pick the co-ordinates. You're the best damn pilot in the Alliance, you should be able to find your way there in your sleep.”

 

Displaying an unusual amount of tact, Joker's only response was a subdued “Aye aye.” and a subtle uptick in engine output. Shepard slapped the terminal off, killing the connection in the same move. Groaning with soul-deep weariness, he hauled himself to his feet and stumbled toward the shower. Outraged hamster squeaks accompanied his progress as he bumped the cage on his way to the stall and he waved a hand at the noise.

 

Somehow, he couldn't find it in himself to give a damn right this second.

 

* * *

 

Four days and several message exchanges later, Shepard stood impatiently in front of the airlock. Frendsehn wasn't lat yet, per se, but she would be very soon if she didn't show up. Of course, as soon as he brought up his omnitool to check for any messages (and the time), EDI came over the speakers.

 

“Dr. Frendsehn has requested entry, Commander.”

 

Shepard hastily shut down his omnitool and assumed an easy stance before nodding to EDI. “Let her in, EDI.”

 

EDI gave no vocal acknowledgment to the order, but Shepard heard the hiss as the airlock engaged. More a ceremonial thing on the Citadel, it would take too much work to deactivate the pressure synchronization protocols so it was several minutes before the inner door to the airlock hissed open.

 

Whatever Shepard had been expecting, it wasn't what he got. He'd had a vague image of a tall, leggy blonde with dreamy eyes and a slightly vacant expression; what actually walked through the airlock was a short, slightly pudgy blonde with a penetrating gave and an oddly anachronistic outfit. Fluffy golden hair fluffed out from under a hat so antique in style Shepard had no idea they even made them any more – and he got a good look at it because to was roughly equal in height to his nose. Her clothes matched the hat perfectly, and her eyes twinkled at him from under the brim.

 

Surprisingly, she seemed to giving him the same kind of once-over he was giving her, though hers had a definite edge of amusement. Even with that much warning, he was unprepared for the brilliant smile that appeared on her face and seemed to light up the entire corridor.

 

She held out her hand – fingerless gloves, he noted absently – for a handshake. He took it and she gave his hand two firm pumps while looking him straight in the eyes. “I'm so glad you agreed! Really puts my mind ease. Speaking of minds, mind if I just start right in? Not the Galaxy's Greatest at the small talk and this is like as not to take hours as it stands. I managed to get myself shipped to Rannoch right after this too, so the quicker here the better.” She made a face. “Made a deal with some quarians to do shit for them to get passage, but hopefully I only have to make the trip the one time.”

 

Shepard nodded, not quite trusting any himself to make an appropriate verbal response and turned to lead her into the cockpit. She seemed to take no offense in the slightest to this silent treatment, following him in agreeable silence. When he pointed out the console she was to use in downloading the back-up, she bustled by him without so much as a by-your-leave and began taking peculiar odds and ends out of her pockets, slotting them together to form something that wouldn't look out of place on a child's play table.

 

She nodded cheerfully to EDI's platform in the passenger seat (Joker was surprisingly not present – probably forced to sleep by EDI) and finagled a loose wire into a hard connection with the navigation panel. A few more buttons were pressed, and the machine whirred to life. Shepard could see light coming out of cracks between sides and frowned.

 

Frendsehn noticed the look. “It's not pretty because I had to throw it together in a real hurry to get it all safe and tested before y'all showed up. Plus I get a faster download over the hard connection.” She shrugged and turned back to what she was working on, occasionally making adjustments but apparently content to just watch the machine go.

 

Shepard just shook his head and turned to go when a stray thought crossed his mind. Turning back, he leaned casually on the nearby bulkhead and regarded Frendsehn quietly for a few minutes before she felt his stare and looked up. Gesturing at the device, he voiced the concern that had occurred to him. “Where, exactly, do you plan on storing these back-ups?”

 

While the Geth were not classified, exactly, EDI was and the Crucible plans definitely were. He had to be sure that they wouldn't accidentally be found by pirates or worse. Granted, even if they were found the people who'd found them would likely have no idea what they had but Shepard had learned not to rely on 'probably doesn't know.' Frendsehn's response was prompt:

 

“I found a little system out in the middle of literal nowhere several years ago – before you died, actually, so maybe a few more than several years – which I think will work admirably. The nearest relay is a long, long way away and the system's got no traffic thanks to a rather odd ion field projected by its primary star. Even better, there's a pre-industrial civilization on the world that'll keep 'em locked away safely for a couple ingots of titanium and aluminum.” She flapped a hand at him dismissively. “I can see what you're thinking, or guess near 'nough. The ion field fucks up sensors and navigation equipment, making it damn near impossible to land anywhere let alone find the place again. I just happened to be jotting co-ordinates down in my notebook – yes, I know, real paper, how old-fashioned – which the only reason I know where the place is when everyone else can't remember because they rely on their navigation systems too damn much.” She glanced over at the cockpit. “No offense, EDI.”

 

“None taken, Dr. Frendsehn.” EDI's response was amused and Shepard just shook his head.

 

“Anyway, the ions really do a marvelous job of fucking shit up.” She leaned toward him, lowering her voice conspiratorially even though the only people within hearing range were Shepard and EDI, whom she was either speaking to or could hear regardless of how quietly she spoke. “Truth to tell, I crash on the planet more than I landed on it. Luckily I'm a dab hand at atmospheric flying or I'd have been so much paste.” She frowned and leaned back, a thoughtful note entering her voice. “I think the field might have a dilatory effect on local time. When I first went there I spoke with a fellow named Nain, and when I went back a few weeks ago I spoke to someone named Borin who claimed to have been Nain's descendant with Nain himself dead for hundreds of years.” She blinked in thought for a few moments then shrugged. “Still, they're a decent lot and keep their contracts to the letter. I made a deal with them for a place to store the crystals within their underground city for a quarter-ton each of aluminum and titanium, with another quarter-ton of each due when I came to retrieve the data.” She waved at the little machine she'd set up, which by now was whining nasally and spilling light out of a dozen seams.

 

Shepard nodded. It was a good strategy – even pre-industrial cities were hard to take by force if they were sufficiently underground. “It's a good idea. I'll leave you to your work, Dr. Frendsehn.”

 

She nodded in a friendly way and Shepard walked off, careful to keep his pace even. The thought that, if she had only finished her work a week or two earlier, he could have had a back-up of Legion to use to save his friend and ally, was one that sent knives of pain into his heart. Rannoch was still too close, too raw, and he needed the warmth of Kaidan's presence like he needed air right that moment. Fortunately, he also knew that Kaidan much preferred the quiet solitude of the Captain's cabin and he would likely find the other biotic there.

 

He sped up.

 


	2. War, and War's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers the end of the war, and some homecoming

Time passed; Frendsehn left the Normandy with even less ceremony than she'd come aboard with but with the addition of a precious data crystal. The Normandy herself departed shortly thereafter for Thessia; from there on she was constantly on the move. Shepard's failure at Thessia and the loss of the asari home world to the Reapers led right into the horrors of Sanctuary and Shepard was sick at heart as the fleets approached the main Cerberus base, Cronos Station. Breaking the assassin's blade was a blow struck for Thane, murdered by the same weapon, but killing the assassin only left him feeling tired and empty.

 

There could be no rest for the weary, however, not with the Catalyst and the knowledge gained from the Prothean VI. All roads lead to home, now, with the Reapers bringing the Citadel to hang over the Earth, and it was time to bring together everything Shepard had been working for.

 

Regroup was neither rest nor respite, but Hackett's words filled them all with a grim, desperately purposeful energy. Now came the end; it was time to do or die. One last desperate throw of the dice and the war would be finished, be it for good or for ill. With Kaidan right behind him Shepard squared his shoulders and walked (ran, crawled, leaped) towards the last battle of the Reaper War, towards a tomorrow he wasn't sure he believed in anymore.

 

And what do you know. It worked. They won.

 

But _oh God_ at what cost?

 

Shepard had held the thought of cheerful-faced Frendsehn and her desperate scheme close as he'd destroyed the conduits leading into the firing mechanism and overloaded the system. Grimly, he appreciated the irony that the war which had started with a Conduit would be ended with one as well, even as the last cables snapped. The Crucible fired, and he knew no more.

 

They told him afterward that it had been quite a show. A great, shimmering surge that had killed the Reapers so thoroughly that even their indoctrination systems – ones that had survived millennia in the dead Reaper – were completely destroyed. All their constructs had fallen dead where they stood as well, dying with their masters and leaving the bodies to their rest at last.

 

Other casualties were less palatable. Some higher-grade VIs had crashed, taking hospitals and clinics offline when they were needed most. Every single Geth had fallen as the Reapers had, dead frames crashing to the ground where they had stood. The Quarians were divided heavily on that one, some glad to see the world-stealing boogeymen fall while others mourned the loss of their newfound friends.

 

EDI.

 

He himself had nearly been a casualty, and the relays definitely were – which made getting things together in the wake of the war difficult. In a slight irony, it took almost as much time to fix the relays as it did to fix Shepard himself.

 

He was still hurting but mobile when the signal came through: The Normandy was coming home.

 

Shepard stood tall, one hand on the cane he needed to stand as medical supplies were stretched to the breaking point. Given the odd shape and he fresh paint job, he suspected it had started out life as a support strut for something but it worked well enough as a cane now and he did not care. An orderly lingered discreetly nearby with a wheelchair, but Shepard was determined to meet the Normandy and her crew on his own two feet, to honor their service – and their sacrifice.

 

Samantha came first, in a uniform that hung looser than regulation specified and a bandage high on one cheek; he'd seen the reports and knew the Normandy had been running dangerously short on food as well as medi-gel. She smiled wanly when she saw him and returned his salute without a word. He nodded to her and she walked by towards the medical staff who had managed to appear from behind the press of newsmongers, gossips, and looky-lous who had gathered to watch the Normandy dock.

 

After Samantha came James, limping still from the injuries he'd gotten before Shepard had sent him and Kaidan off the battlefield to safety. James nodded to him with a smile and gave him a parade-ground snap of a salute. Shepard returned it gravely, and clapped Vega on the shoulder as he went by. The younger man would do well as an N7, if his injuries healed correctly.

 

Shepard flinched away from the wave of guilt that thought generated, only to be hit with another as Tali appeared at the head of the ramp. Her envirosuit hung looser than the uniforms of the ones before her – for a ship built partially by Turians, her crew was primarily levo-amino and the stores had reflected that; the dextro food had run short far before the levo rations had and both she – and Garrus, who stood close behind her – looked just this side of unhealthily thin.

 

With Garrus keeping close behind her with a solicitous three-fingered hand on her shoulder, Tali walked by without a word. Where once Shepard might have smirked at Garrus' overprotective display, now he could only watch them leave in silence, closing his eyes when the guilt threatened to overwhelm his composure. He had killed EDI and the Geth with the biggest gun ever created; he understood Tali's reaction and accepted it (frankly, he was surprised she hadn't slapped him).

 

(It would have hurt less if she had slapped him.)

 

Liara was next, arm in arm with a limping Steve. While Cortez hadn't died in the shuttle crash (thank God), he wasn't going to be winning any marathons anytime soon. Jaavik walked close behind the pair, his eyes unreadable though his whole demeanor was lighter, as if a great burden had been lifted from him. With the Reapers dead, the Protheans could rest avenged in the assurance that their foe had been paid in full for their crimes. Jaavik, alone of his ground crew, seemed willing to do more than meet his eyes. The ancient alien strode over to Shepard and clasped his forearm in a warrior's grip traditional for time out of mind.

 

Liara herself seemed unwilling to look at him, so he walked over with a shuffled step and clicking cane to take one of her hands in his free one. She looked up, startled, and he smiled gently at her. Now did not feel like the time for words and anyway, he had none of the right ones to say. It was true that she had been the one to find and parse the plans for the Crucible, but Shepard – and Shepard alone – bore the responsibility for how those plans had been used.

 

He wasn't sure she was aware other options had existed – until they had been offered to him, he hadn't known either. Control had been a heady thought, but Shepard had known himself too well to think that would work in the long run. Synthesis might have been a viable choice if a majority had supported it; without that consent, Shepard refused to even contemplate erasing much of the Galaxy's diversity, a diversity that had helped them get this far.

 

And the Reapers had to face the consequences of their actions.

 

The loss of EDI and the Geth were hard blows, and the painfully slowed recovery after the damage to the Mass Relays had given Shepard plenty of time to think over the consequences of his actions. Aratoht had been bad; this was worse. But in the end, each decision had been his, and his alone. The full burden of responsibility – and guilt – were his to bear. Liara had nothing to be ashamed of.

 

Liara's return smile was small, and wan, but she looked better for having done it. She stood a little straighter and lost a few of the worried lines around her eyes, and Shepard figured that was as good as he was going to get. Reaching out for Jaavik, who had stayed close after clasping Shepard's arm, his smile faded at whatever he had sensed from the Commander, he put Liara's hand in the Prothean's and both of them looked surprised.

 

Steve chuckled, a hand on his ribs, and nodded to Shepard. All three of them followed the others back behind Shepard and out of sight. A steady stream of crewmen slipped by, most of them saluting or nodding at Shepard. The stream slowed, and a familiar figure stood at the top of the ramp.

 

Kaidan.

 

He limped worse than Vega, but the look in his eyes said the view was worth the pain. Shepard limped forward and looped an arm around Kaidan's waist. Kaidan smiled; warm, brown eyes met Shepard's tired black ones and a nearly soundless huff of laughter fluttered between them. “I've heard about the blind leading the blind, but didn't the lame get to walk freely?” Shepard blinked, then rolled his eyes as they set off down the ramp.

 

The orderly formerly standing by discreetly with the wheelchair suddenly became the orderly sternly forcing Kaidan into said wheelchair as they reached the bottom. Kaidan made a face but accepted Shepard's help in getting into the offending object. He tried to keep a hold on him for as long as he could, but the medicos were moving a lot faster than Shepard could ever hope to with his cane.

 

Shepard stood silently, gazing after the Major for what felt like a long time. A noise, familiar, one he had been dreading, pulled him from his introspection. All but one of the flight crew had left the ship, and the slow shuffling brought the last member into view. Joker stood at the top of the ramp, contriving to hide his eyes beneath the brim of his ever-present cap no matter that Shepard stood below him.

 

He came down the ramp slowly, favoring one leg more than usual and moving in a stiffly precise way that suggested a brace for broken ribs. He didn't approach Shepard, instead heading for the herd of medics that had been considerably reduced as they had taken the crew off to treatment centers according to need and availability, but he stopped when he drew even with Shepard. “You make it right, Commander. You remember what happened – _make it right._ ”

 

He limped away and Shepard stood frozen, staring unseeing at the scarred hull of the Normandy. Joker's words had struck a chord, slid a knife easily in between his ribs and left him breathless at the icy feeling. _Mea maxima culpa_ ; my own, most grievous fault. He bowed his head for a long moment, hearing the dull roar behind that had risen with every technician, marine, and crewman had slipped past him beating with the sound of friends found or found lost, families reunited or forever shattered, reunions bringing tears for good as well as ill. He did not turn away from the Normandy until after the hush had returned, until those brought back had to have left with those who had remained behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a second chapter right now because I have it typed and I feel it flows better split into chapters thusly


	3. Picking up Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War's over. Time to start cleaning up

When he finally managed to tear his eyes away from the white hull charred with weapons fire, he was startled to find the crew had remained, friends and family standing beside them. They looked at him expectantly, some with the light of awe in their eyes. He could feel the weight of their stares, of their expectations, and they weighed heavy with him. He could see them waiting, watching for him to speak – but today there were no words. Could be no words.

He straightened as tall as he could make his aching body go and snapped off a salute that would have made his old drill sergeant proud. The crew returned the gesture with aplomb, and the civilians did their best to copy the motion. Shepard waited patiently as they departed the docks in twos and threes, with a few larger groups obviously headed off to celebrate.

Shepard didn't feel much like celebrating as he began walking after the last of the crew to leave. The newscasters were making a valiant effort to reach him for an interview, but he had already said all he was going to say to the media during his recuperation. Diana Allers had interviewed him several times from his hospital bed (funny, really, that she'd managed to survive the battle on one of the Quarian lifeships) and had told her to call them exclusives because he sure as Hell wasn't talking to anyone else.

He'd told her it was because she was the best; she'd preened at the praise but he could see the tiny flicker of knowing in her eyes as she wasn't fooled by his flattery. In reality, it was because he didn't trust anyone who hadn't been there on the line time and again to tell the truth. Allers had been on the Normandy for almost the entirety of the cruise; the only reason she'd been displaced onto a Quarian ship is because they had the space and the Normandy had needed the bay for extra munitions.

Shepard snorted as he walked through Huerta Memorial. Considerably nicer than the field hospital where Shepard had spent 86% of his recuperation, Huerta had a bittersweet irony to it. The last time Kaidan had been seriously injured under his command had seen him in this same hospital afterward. The opening salvo of the Reaper War had seen him in this hospital, and the final battle brought him back again in a cycle that had a twisted sort of symmetry to it. _Right on down to the room assignment_ , Shepard noted in vague amusement. The small room, with its wall of windows opening onto the Presidium, seemed even smaller now; the windows had been polarized into a smooth glass wall, though C-Sec had pulled all the corpses from the open area a month ago.

The green spaces had suffered mightily on being exposed to hard vacuum, and much of the vegetation had been pulled out in desiccated brown bundles. All that was left were dark browns and greys, with the lakes only half-full of dull, colorless water. The stark light, no longer adjusted to mimic sunlight, highlighted the bleak edges in a stark fashion, dull light greys edged in razor-edged black shadows.

All in all, there was nothing left on the Presidium worth looking at so doctors had apparently decided to blank all the windows on that side of the building (Shepard had noted it on his way in). “Hey.” The soft voice greeted Shepard immediately on entry this time, warm brown eyes meeting his with a smile. Shepard returned the smile crookedly, rueful memories tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey yourself. How’re you doing?”

“Alright.” A pained grimace accompanied the word and gave lie to it.

“Kaidan.” Shepard stepped forward and took one of the biotic’s warm hands in his free one. “You’ll live. That’s enough for me. You don’t have to pretend.”

Kaidan huffed a laugh and squeezed Shepard’s hand in return. “Same to you. I wasn’t sure there, just after, that you were even alive. Just look at the both of us now.” Kaidan’s eyes looked distant for a few moments, before re-focusing on Shepard. “Those last moments, before the Normandy hauled us out of there….When that ramp came up, I felt so sure it would be the last time I’d see you…”

Shepard tightened his grip, bringing Kaidan back to the present. “Hey, none of that. We’re both alive for the foreseeable future - too many others can’t say the same.” He held Kaidan’s grip and his gaze a few moments more, then looked away. The look in those eyes was unbearably soft, even as visions of those lost - those he had killed in one last, desperate gamble - rose unbidden to his mind.

Something tugging on his arm brought him back to reality with a start and he looked down in surprise to find Kaidan half-sitting up, worry in every line of his face. “Shepard, it wasn’t your fault. None of us knew going into this what the Crucible was going to do.” Shepard, throat clogged with guilt and pain, could only nod soberly.

He wanted to speak, to tell Kaidan the truth the Catalyst had told him. To tell him that he had had a choice, and that he had _chosen_ to kill so many. That he had knowingly killed billions.

He couldn’t.

“I know, Kaidan. I’m just gonna need reminding for awhile.”

Kaidan reached with his other hand and held Shepard’s with both of his. “‘S What I’m here for Shepard. I’ve always got your back, no matter what.”

Well, there was really only one answer to that.

* * *

More time passed in a haze of rebuilding and political maneuvering. With the elimination of the Genophage, the Krogan political presence had grown by exponential factors and the Krogans themselves were in high demand for everything from rebuilding infrastructure to cleansing the aftermath of galaxy-spanning war. Indoctrination had been broken by the destruction of the Reapers and the hideous, half-lived constructs had fallen when their masters had, but something about the end of civilization brought out the absolute worst in people no matter what species they were. Pirates, slavers, and religious cultists swarmed defenseless colony worlds, brutalizing already-traumatized survivors and taking relief supplies without remorse. Krogan warriors were sent wherever practical and Wrex and Grunt were feeling the strain of the number of requests.

The Asari were the hardest hit Council race besides humanity - the only one whose homeworld had fallen completely to the Reapers. Overall the elcor, volus, and batarians had suffered more - batarian populations had fallen so low it had taken a team of salarian geneticists to keep inbreeding from being a problem - yet the Asari had a certain inflexibility in their cultural mindset that hindered reconstruction efforts to the point that Thessia was still mostly uninhabitable after nine months. Even as the Shadow Broker, Liara’s best efforts could only push things so far.

The salarian high command spent most of its time, for lack of a better word, sulking about the Genophage and their loss of face in the Galactic community. The general population of salarians seemed to be of the opinion that salarian high command needed to remove the rigid hindrance from their anuses, and simply got on with what reconstruction they could no matter what the dalatrass said. A few brave souls had even joined Maelon when he went back to Tuchanka to help rebuild the Shroud facility and make some other improvements. The Krogans had been suspicious of such behavior and the inevitable violence had escalated until Wrex had put his foot down - in a few cases, literally - on the offenders and put a stop to it.

Mordin’s memorial was erected quietly at the foot of the Shroud by persons unknown, and remained untouched.

Palaven was the best off of all the Council homeworlds; the Turian Hierarchy had been perfecting the process of war for a long time. The lines of command had remained clear, and each unit had done what they had been trained to do since a young age. With Krogan support - and the distraction of the Reapers when Earth didn’t go down as easily as the machines had given it credit for - the Turians had been holding Palaven firmly and had even retaken Menae when the call to muster for Earth had gone out.

Rannoch had gone quiet. Rumor had it that the Quarians were buckling down to reconstruction 300 years in the making, and finding it almost impossible without the Geth. Infection and injury were taking a heavy toll, or so the rumor went. All Quarian ships had made the jump back to the Perseus Veil as soon as the relays had opened, and that was that as far as anything more than hearsay went.

(This wasn’t entirely true. A few Rachni had accidentally gone with the fleet when they’d made their exodus, and when pressed the Rachni Queen would whisper softly of grief and fire.)

Earth picked itself up out of the devastation quietly. Publicly broadcast ceremonies for the dead and the lost had tailed off before the Normandy had returned but surged again as the reopened relays brought the tolls from other systems. Shepard made sure to attend all the mass military funerals and memorials, and was required to attend the inevitable Alliance council meetings as martial law continued in the absence of civilian leaders - though elections were already being organized, albeit hampered by communication delays and a distinct lack of suitable nonmilitary candidates. Life went on.


	4. You've Got Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard receives another letter

Seven months passed in a frantic blur of work, politics, and people. As soon as Shepard was declared fit for duty he and a newly-repaired Normandy were sent to quell uprisings, pirates, and mercenaries, and to deliver aid wherever the Alliance saw fit to send them. It wasn’t until the fourth mission that he realized the Alliance brass was using him to improve humanity’s stock in the galaxy. When he’d gone to Hackett about it, the man had looked at him tiredly and said that of course they were but it was work that needed doing and if the other admirals were adamant about Shepard being the one to do them then he could suck it up.

A side effect of this endless round of missions was that he had precious little time to spend with Kaidan, who was still recovering slowly and fitfully after his brush with Harbinger. The strain that he had subjected his L2 implants to in the final battle had repercussions that had kept him bedridden for months and his recovery was still plagued by relapses and surprise infections. 

The Normandy was on its way back to the Citadel after Shepard had received word that Kaidan was - once again - in Huerta Memorial when Traynor approached him at the Galaxy map. Traynor, like so many of the surviving crew members, had elected to return to duty on the Normandy when the opportunity arose. “New message at your private terminal, sir. And a package arrived for; I put it on your desk.” Shepard blinked at her, a sense of deja vu sweeping over him and all he could do was nod.

He stepped over to his terminal. 

A name that had haunted his thoughts for the better part of a year stared at him from the top of the inbox. He opened the message, his heart thumping painfully. Had she finally started resurrecting the geth? 

_ Dear Cmdr Shepard,  _

_ Hi! I really hope this message finds you well because if you're reading this, it means I'm dead. Hopefully it was a quick and permanent death, I don’t fancy being one of those husk things. _

_ Fortunately, I managed to get a bunch of the geth encoded in between my work shifts on the Crucible, and they - and EDI! - are safely stored on that planet I mentioned. Unfortunately, it's looking like the science groups won't be able to pull out of the Crucible before go time so we're going to have to take our chances on rearguard Shield fleet ships. _

_ I, uh, ran the odds of living through this a few minutes ago and….. Yeah. I'm writing this note now and I'm putting it on a dead man's timer when I finish. I don't check in on it in a year, the message gets sent to you. If I'm dead, I'm certainly not going to be retrieving those crystals. If you're alive, you're the best man for the job.  _

_ I've sent you a package with the galaxy coordinates, the documentation from the natives, and some of my schematics for hardening a ship’s system against the ion field. You really must be careful of the ion field in the system. It WILL fuck your ships systems with a cactus. The designs take a bit of time and effort to install but you shouldn’t go without them. _

_ Hope the resurrection goes well! _

 

_ Excelsior! _

_ Eleanora Frendsehn _

 

“Sir?” 

Shepard blinked as Traynor’s face came into focus. He didn’t know how long he’d spent, staring at the message, but he could see the worry hovering at the edges of her expression and sliding through the small wrinkles on her forehead. He shook his head and smiled at her, one of the few real smiles he’d given to anyone since the war ended. “Things are looking up, Traynor.”

He turned on his heel and headed to the lift, leaving her speechless behind him. A myriad of plans were buzzing through his skull, each demanding attention like a pushy vendor at a street market. He had work to do.


	5. Stubborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission

 

“Permission denied.”

The words stunned Shepard, and he blinked stupidly at Hackett. “Sir-”

“No, Shepard. I cannot spare the ships or the manpower, and I certainly cannot spare you. Not for some uncorroborated fairy tale that's probably just a wild goose chase. You can't even prove those crystals exist, let alone that they contain viable data and managed to survive the War.” Shepard opened his mouth to object,  but Hackett held up a hand to forestall the outburst. “I cannot,  in good conscience, send the man who saved the Galaxy and the one of a kind stealth frigate he commands when so many systems have been decimated and are in desperate need of assistance. That is the bottom line. I will not lie and try to compare my experience to yours, Shepard, but I can't allow you to do this and for that I am sorry.”

Hackett waited for a long moment, but Shepard had nothing left to say. If the arguments he had already presented were inadequate, then some half-assed begging was going to get him anywhere. He snapped off a salute which Hackett returned with a nod. “Dismissed.”

Shepard strode off with a purposeful step. IF asking for permission hadn’t gotten him anywhere, then asking for forgiveness later would have to do. He’d stolen the Normandy when the Council had forbidden him to go after Saren despite the overwhelming evidence that not doing so would be catastrophic. The only difference this time was that he could not - would not - bring his crew with him. Everyone he would have considered had gone back to their own lives, rebuilding shattered homes on shattered worlds, while the new crew of the Normandy...they were young, eager, and felt the honor of working on the Normandy keenly. He wouldn’t ruin their prospects by giving them a choice they felt they couldn’t refuse - whether from a misplaced sense of duty or, more likely, hero worship.

Besides which, the shadow of Jenkins loomed large in Shepard’s mind whenever he led them into battle. Dead for four years, almost, he had been the first casualty of the Normandy’s crew, and a vivid lesson as to what happened to young, eager marines. There were real risks to this mission and it would be going against orders to boot. However it ended, his reputation would protect him from the worst of that particular fallout, something which couldn’t be said of the Normandy’s current crew. Hackett was right in that regard; something could very well have destroyed or otherwise damaged the crystals and anyone he brought along would run the very material risk of tanking their career.

If Kaidan had been up to it, he would have brought the other biotic along in heartbeat.  _ And if wishes were horses then beggars would ride _ , he thought grimly as he brought up his omnitool. As he walked further into the base he began to compose two messages. One was to Kaidan, outlining exactly what he planned to do and where he was going, which he put a week and a half sending delay on before starting a message to a person who owed him a favor big enough for a ship, some supplies, and a way to sneak out to them.

_ TO: Aria T’Loak _

_ RE: I need a favor. And a ship… _


	6. Party Crasher

Shepard gritted his teeth as the tiny mining vessel, improbably named  _ Pride of the King Royal’s Navy _ , juddered in the queer energy storm surrounding the system identified in Frendsehn’s co-ordinates. The ride hadn’t exactly been smooth up to that point either, internal gravitic compensators taking a backseat to thrusters powerful enough to tow around planetoids in their heyday, but compared to now it may as well have been sailing across still waters. The ship’s heyday was long past, of course; Aria wasn’t stupid enough to send a decent ship on what was likely to be a one-way trip, and this had been the only one on her list to be small enough to avoid Navy patrols and still make it all the way out to this forsaken part of space.

Still, even with Shepard as the only crew the ride had been cramped. He’d stowed most of his gear in the cavernous and nearly-empty cargo bay - the only other cargo had been the pieces and detritus that comes from smashing a lot of rocks - and had installed himself in the crew quarters that hunkered on the armored plating above like a frog on a stubby log. The berth was a fold-down bunk that folded up into a locker during the day and the head was just a bit of piping behind a panel. Luxury the ship was not. Still, it had served to bring him thus far and that mattered more than the fact that his body felt like one big charley horse.

Now, though, with turbulence increasing as he approached the solar system, he began to regret not taking the time to implement some of Frendsehn’s hardening schematics on the ship. If Hackett had said yes, he’d’ve had them applied to the Normandy in Alliance drydock at the drop of a hat. As it was, Hackett knew him well enough to send Marines after him in the wake of the disastrous meeting ostensibly as an honor guard but in reality to make damn sure he went back to the Normandy and didn’t steal it again.

They’d let him stop by and say goodbye to Kaidan, but they hadn’t let him stay for long - just long enough for some reassurances on both sides and a quick kiss. Kaidan was due in for major surgery the next day, the doctors finally having located the underlying issue to his relapses; Harbinger’s beam had caused Kaidan’s implant to heat up quickly and unexpectedly, and had burned and scarred some portions of his brain that ordinarily have been unaffected by his biotic usage. An Asari specialist was being flown in to do corrective surgery and Shepard had wanted to be there but his mission was imperative.

Aria had arranged to meet him in Limbo and had extracted him from his Marine escort with ease; he’d explained in slightly more detail - not too much, as those crystals were extremely valuable and friendship only went so far - and Aria had agreed. She’d had him led to a small, out-of-way dock where people studiously saw nothing as they prepped the  _ Pride _ for departure. Aria had wished him luck, in her own way, and sent him off with a warning about crossing her by getting himself killed or taken hostage; she still had too much use for him after the war to see it end now.

A new wave of turbulence shook him out of the past. The _ Pride’s _ powerful engines were straining to keep on course among the shockwaves of electromagnetic radiation, warning lights blinking on and off in the cockpit as Shepard dismissed all but the most important or the warning lights themselves blew out. Surges battered the old, patched-up systems, with power arcing across random welds and other invisible seams.

Solar skiff enthusiasts would love the system, riding the solar winds like the surfers on the California coastline, but the _ Pride _ had not been designed to take this kind of punishment. Her thick hull plating, designed to withstand prolonged usage in asteroid fields or micrometeoroid clouds, did next to nothing for the electromagnetic waves that battered at her in much the same fashion as 20ft swells batter a rowboat on the ocean. Unlike the ocean, however, the waves increased in both frequency and intensity as he approached their source.

The juddering had become continuous by the time he reached the only planet in the system. Only full planet, anyway: there were several proto planetoids  beyond the “life belt” in the system but they were small and completely lifeless. As the first wispy threads of atmosphere began to lick across the  _ Pride’s _ hull, a particularly powerful wave of radiation smashed across her bow. Most of the remaining lights in the cockpit went out immediately; the rest flickered wildly in warning and sirens warbled ludicrous calls of warning as speaker after speaker shorted out in a random pattern across the ship. 

Shepard slapped the alarm override impatiently with one hand while he kept the other splayed across the controls. He had no great virtue as a pilot, but damned if he wasn’t going to try. The klaxons cut off and the remaining warning lights blew out at the override. The brief lull was immediately filled by the rising scream of uncontrolled atmospheric re-entry. 

Cross-winds buffeted the  _ Pride _ as much as the EM waves had, and she was pushed wildly off course. Shepard saw rivers sliding away below; mountains made an appearance but thankfully the Pride still had enough altitude to loft over the intimidating crags. Plains slid by underneath, forests - he was scraping the tops off trees, fires were springing up in his wake - more trees, lower, impacts felt through the hull - the ground, there -

* * *

 

Shepard woke with a start, banging his head painfully on a piece of ceiling more than halfway on its journey to become one with the floor. Swearing under his breath, he straightened slowly, carefully maneuvering the ceiling tile to a safer location. A glance around was enough to know that the _ Pride _ would never leave the planet as anything more than scrap metal; Aria had been right about her chances of getting the ship back.

A sudden vision of the icy grave of the  _ Normandy _ , frozen in forlorn disarray on the surface of Alchera, stole his breath. There was pressure on his chest, he couldn’t breath, Kaidan-

He slapped the safety harness release frantically and sat back, gasping for breath. He’d managed to slip out of any kind of psychological evaluation of Alchera by first Cerberus not giving a damn and then the Admiralty giving too many damns about Aratoht and very few about disgraced Commander Shepard. By the time he’d finished the war, they’d assumed he’d gotten over it.

So had he.

But now wasn’t the time for introspection, and he ruthlessly pushed the memories away until he could think, until he could breath normally again and take stock of the situation. He pushed himself out of the chair and immediately went sprawling as gravity pulled him in an unexpected direction; apparently the  _ Pride _ hadn’t come down quite level. Swearing again at the new bruises on his shins, he pushed himself up into a semi-crouch and began laboriously making his way back to the “living area” of the ship.

The bunk had come loose from its locker and now hung drunkenly by one hinge. Shepard pulled it the rest of the way off with a jerk and shoved it into the now-useless cockpit. The envelope containing the written agreements for the natives had been sealed inside a safety box and had come through the crash unscathed; Shepard’s armor set hadn’t been nearly so lucky. Most of the components had been smashed in one way or another, though he’d probably be able to rig something up out of the leftover plating. The kinetic barriers were definitely toast, however, which was irritating because they would have been the most useful part of the armor as the native populations hadn't even discovered gunpowder yet. Still, he'd make do and his biotics would make up the difference even if he wasn't very good at barriers.

His few pieces of civilian clothing had come through reasonably well,  and he unearthed a cache of rations. The nearly tasteless bars of protein, carbs, and nutrients could probably survive a nuclear blast before becoming any less edible. He found a rather worn knapsack stuffed into the tiny space between the fold-down bunk and the floor, a little ragged in places but still serviceable. It had probably belonged to the previous operator of the ship - or a previous operator, anyway - and the printed initials had long since worn away.

He stuffed the stash of ration bars in it, then for good measure added a change of clothes and all the water bottles that would fit on top of that. The papers went into a concealed inner pocket that had previously contained a bottle of what smelled like heavily watered Ryncol (he knew it was heavily watered because his eyebrows didn’t combust when he opened the bottle though his nose did shrivel up and die on the inside). He set the bottle gingerly aside; the last thing he needed was something that flammable next to the infinitely more important written agreements. A dusty bottle of liquid purification tablets went in the bag, plus the minimal supply of medi-gel, and finally a small toolkit for repairs.

Picking up the overstuffed pack, he hauled himself over to the airlock. What scans he’d managed to get of the planet had indicated a good levo-amino garden world with perhaps slightly more oxygen than Earth-standard percentages but otherwise comfortable, so he had no qualms about leaving the Pride without fully functional armor or an envirosuit.

The interior door yielded grudgingly to repeated wrenching on the manual door release, and the screech of protest it made was enough to set Shepard’s teeth on edge. One look at the outer doors, fused  and malformed by re-entry, was enough to dissuade him from even trying the manual override. He couldn’t shoot his way out - his weapons were in a hidden and reinforced portion of the hold, and besides even after being through hell the doors were more than a match for simple hand weapons.

Fortunately, Shepard didn’t need them. Not for simply getting the doors open, anyway.

Narrowing his eyes, Shepard concentrated with the deep part of his brain where his biotic amp hid, housing most of his abilities. An eerie purple-blue glow flickered into place over his skin, as silently as years of training could get it - which wasn’t very, as Shepard believed that if he had to use his biotics the time for stealth was long since gone. Additionally, he’d worked very hard a boy to get it to make a particular whooshing noise that never failed to make his father smile as it was nearly identical to a “lightsaber” powering up in one of those old 2D vids the older man had loved a great deal (Kaidan had asked him about the noise once, and nearly laughed himself sick at the comparison, while at the same time holding him closer and patting his back fondly).

It took a few biotic kicks to make the door sail free of its housing, but Cerberus had given him a significant upgrade to his biotic powers when they’d rebuilt him and he was more than up to the task. The door made an almighty crash as it sailed into the darkness through whatever foliage was still standing. It wasn’t as far to the ground from the airlock as it ought to have been; the _Pride_ had plowed a deep furrow into the...forest, yes, he’d landed among trees…..and was now resting with most of the fore-ward portion buried in the side of a new hill. Shepard jumped down and clumped around to the rear of the _Pride,_ and the personnel access hatch to the cargo bay. Fortunately the _Pride_ hadn’t tumbled on the short axis and the front end had taken most of the ablative/heat damage from the atmosphere on their entry to it. Power was out, of course, but the exterior manual access handle hadn’t melted off and he managed to get the hatch cranked open.

Shepard ducked into the cavernous bay, easily more than four times his height, and looked around. Everything fore of a certain point had welded itself to the nearest available surface, rendering a surprisingly high-quality cache of weapons so much decorative scrap. The supply of heatsinks had been stored mostly with the weapons themselves, with only a few he’d stashed further back still in a usable state. He tucked these into his pack as best he could.

His own kit, stored further back, had survived relatively unscatched - a small Executioner pistol he’d picked up off one of the innumerable Blood Pack krogan he’d taken out over the years, a nice (if nearly unused) sniper rifle Garrus had pressed on him for his last birthday - modded heavily to fold into a space nearly as small as the pistol, which was the only reason Shepard was even carrying it - and a remarkably subtle knife that Grunt had gotten him for the same birthday Garrus had given him the rifle (the blade was only a bit longer than his forearm and not serrated at all). The last thing he grabbed was a small cord bracelet Kaidan had given to him after the harrowing trip to the bottom of the sea to speak to Leviathan. He rarely got to wear it as it did not fit well under his armor, but it slipped on easily enough now.

Frowning speculatively, Shepard began exploring the nooks and crannies near the rear loading door. Precious metals were probably a better currency here than credits were, and it did not take him long to find a fair amount of gold and ore that would do nicely. The years had left their mark on the old tub, and infrequent cleanings meant that any fragments tended to stay where they fell - more than enough to fill a small bag to bulging. Tying to his belt was an exercise in weight management, and when he finally got it into a comfortable position that didn’t interfere with him drawing his pistol, he hopped back out through the hatch. Cranking the hatch shut behind him was the work a few moments, and he set off into the night.


	7. Local Scenery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard takes a hike and finds some "friends"

After getting a fair distance away from the crash site, Shepard spent the rest of the night up a surprisingly comfortable tree. The lower branches were far off the ground and wide with advanced age; a casual climber - or, more likely, a bear (he’d heard the growling) - wouldn’t be able to even reach them; one biotically-assisted jump was all it took for Shepard to make it.

Shepard slept soundly and awoke ravenous. He tore through five of the ration bars before feeling even remotely full; frowning, he counted the rest of the bars in the bag twice before snapping it resolutely closed. He’d have to abstain from using his biotics unless absolutely necessary or he found a steady food source; he had no other resources save the ones in the bag and an unknown timeframe to deal with, and if he tried to use his biotics without enough stored energy he stood a very real chance of dying as his body metabolized the protein in important muscles like his heart. Moving his knife to an easy-access position, he jumped down from the tree and set off towards the west.

It didn’t take him long to find a path, and he followed it readily. Paths meant people, and people meant information and supplies. Usually. This path was not well-kempt, and was floored in soft grass and old leaves; the only indication it was a path were the partial footprints he’d found and the general lack of impeding underbrush. Still, it was better than nothing.

It took Shepard more than half the day to reach the edge of the forest, emerging into the sunlight through a hedge tunnel he’d had to get down on hands and knees to fit through - and even then, it was something of a tight fit. Standing and stretching to get the multiple cricks out of his back and neck after such an endeavour, Shepard took stock of his surroundings. 

The hedge tunnel had dumped out on the edge of what could only be described as a small, medieval village - with an emphasis on “small.” A volus would feel tall in the place, and Shepard felt like a too-tall gawky teenager for the first time in more than a decade. The stables nearby were filled with short, fat ponies, and the houses - built directly into the gently rolling hills - were no taller at the gable than his nose, and most were shorter. The fences along a neatly-kept road were little more than knee-high to him, and he could see small children running atop them some distance off.

The place itself was perfectly suited to local inhabitants, however; shorter than a Volus, most of them, they reminded him strongly of some of the garden gnomes his aunt had kept in her yard on Mindoir. Short, waistcoated, huge feet - though the amount of hair visible on said feet was off-putting - and generally rounder and soft, the only thing they were missing were long beards, pointed hats, and boots. It would probably be impolitic to mention the resemblance, however, since he already seemed to the subject of near universal disgruntlement and wariness. The juveniles he’d noted running atop the fence rail had already disappeared from sight around a hill and the people still around seemed to be (to a man) glaring or staring at him and muttering with their nearest neighbors.

Shepard shrugged mentally. As far as menacing dislike of strangers went, these people didn’t have a patch on his first time going to Tuchanka and he’d had enough practice at talking to people who didn’t like after heading back to Earth post-Aratoht.

He winced away from that thought and walked over to the nearest local, a particularly rotund male who was sweeping the front steps of what was presumably his home. “Excuse me,” he said, nodding affably. “I seem to have gone off course somewhat. I was looking for a place called Erebor; could you possibly tell me how to get there from here?” He’d learned the hard over the years that being polite first often answered his needs better than rudeness, and he could always go for option two later if he needed to. 

The fellow squinted up at him in suspicion but Shepard kept waiting, his face fixed a look polite but harmless interest. Finally, he seemed to decide that he couldn’t keep Shepard waiting any longer and answered with surprising civility. “I’ve never heard of Erebor, but you’re in Buckland sir, sure as sure. On the Brandywine between Bree and the Shire, it is.” 

“I have!”

The unexpected interjection came from behind them, a small, piping voice that was immediately followed by a pluck on his sleeve. Shepard turned in surprise, while the male he’d been talking to scowled at the speaker. One of the juveniles Shepard had seen running earlier was standing behind him, mud on his knees and elbows and an open expression on his face. His feet were even bigger in comparison to his body than the adults, and his ears stuck out like pointy jug handles. The older male started in on the younger, suddenly heedless of Shepard. “Look at you, Saradas Took! Why, your mother will tan your hide, all over mud!”

A mulish look and an indrawn breath heralded a yelling match that, while possibly hilarious, was not something Shepard really wanted to be in the middle of right now. He took a half-step to turn and crouched down to Saradas’ height as best he could. “You know where Erebor is?”

Derailed, Saradas puffed out his breath and shook his head. A paralyzing spike of disappointment shot through Shepard before Saradas spoke up again. “But I heard it. There was dwarves heading towards the East Farthing on the East Road and they was talking about it. Me ‘n Torilac ‘n Merilas followed ‘em for a bit.” 

This intelligence did nothing to calm the older local and he puffed up like an indignant cat. “Why I never! Going all that way and dragging Torilac and Merilas with you! Let’s see what your mother has to say about that!” This last remark was punctuated by a quick gesture that ended with Saradas’ ear clenched firmly in his hand and a squall of pain from the younger local. He was already hauling away before Shepard could even straighten up and Shepard was obliged to jog a few steps after them.

“Where could I find these dwarves now?” The older local paused a moment in thought before replying. “Like as not you’ll see them in Stock, the other side of the bridge. The bridge is the only crossing of the river for twenty miles. Good day, sir!”

With that, the pair hurried off and Shepard was left standing vaguely bemused in the middle of the road. Shaking himself, he turned around and started following the cobbled road. He still didn’t know exactly where he was going, but at least he had something of a direction. A polite enquiry of another local got him a squeak and a hurried gesture before the local vanished inside of the houses. Sighing, he turned and went in the direction indicated.

He saw a few more locals as he went, but most seemed unwilling to speak to him without being spoken to first, the vast majority just glaring at him until he lost sight of them, but a few went so far as to actually cross to the other side of the path so he wouldn’t be near them. It was something of a novel experience for Shepard, especially after the Second Battle of the Citadel. 

The Quarians had resented him for the demise of the Geth, and Joker held little enough love for him after the death of EDI, but the rest of the settled galaxy by and large hailed him as a hero and would constantly and consistently invade his personal space given half a chance. The wide berth given him by the residents of “Buckland” was a breath of fresh air. Right up until it got annoying, of course, but it was still much easier to deal with than unremitting adulation. 

Going North eventually fetched him up against an enormous hedge that could have been twin to the one that had contained the tunnel he’d crawled through earlier in the day. This one was markedly less obliging when it came to tunnels, however, so he ended up turning West and walking along it.

It didn’t take long for a gate in the hedge to hove into sight - a gate much larger and better-kempt than the tunnel. This one was tall enough - and wide enough - to accommodate the leisurely stream of carts going back and forth through it. To his surprise, some of the carts appeared to be driven by humans, though in clothes that wouldn’t have looked out of place on actors performing period Shakespeare. Shepard’s civvies, such as they were, were thankfully not so very visually distinct that he’d stand out in a crowd. The materials were different, of course, even being junky clothes he’d wear while doing outdoorsy things on his (rare) shore leaves. 

Still, it was enough to get a suspicious glare from the carter as he approached. Shepard tried on a friendly smile and the man’s expression tightened. Shepard stopped a reasonable distance away from the cart and held up both hands. “Woah there friend, I’m not looking for trouble. Just hoping to get directions for a place named Stock.”

The carter eyeballed him for a long moment, but the fellow didn’t have anything on Hackett in that department and Shepard maintained his look of polite friendliness with ease. The carter finally decided that answering the question was going to get rid of Shepard faster than just glaring at him and answered shortly. “Follow this road here west. Stock is just over the Brandywine in the Shire, though you’ll find no warm welcome there and make no mistake.”

Feeling that this was about as much information as he was going to get out of the truculent fellow, Shepard stepped away and the carter urged his horse onward towards the East. Deciding that a farewell was unlikely to get him anywhere helpful, he turned and headed West.


	8. The Golden Perch

The Brandywine Bridge was a surprisingly large and sturdy stone bridge, spanning a wide and sedate river. While some colonies - especially the older, better-established ones - did indeed begin building structures out of local stone and other materials, Mindoir had not been one of them. Shepard had never seen a brick and mortar construction before he’d joined the Alliance, and he had to acknowledge that the material did tend to lend structures a certain air of permanence that durabuild - no matter how much longer it would last beyond simple stone - just couldn’t capture. 

Stepping onto the bridge was almost...anticlimactic. The rubberized soles of his boots made little enough noise even on the stone of the bridge as not to be heard over the rumble of sedate - but steady - stream of carts using the bridge. The carts themselves varied, but most were pulled by an ox or a pony and driven by a reasonably equal mix of humans and the short indigenous species. Shepard moved quickly, dodging some of the more careless carters as he traversed the span. It wasn’t a terribly long bridge; the town on the other side boasted an open square surrounded by a low hedge and covered over by a slatted pavilion. There were a number of small but sturdy houses around it, done in the same size and style as he’d found in Buckland.

The largest building on the square boasted a hanging, wooden sign with a yellow fish painted on it. Shepard blinked at it stupidly for a few seconds before enlightenment dawned and he turned and made a beeline for it. It wasn’t the most prepossessing place he’d ever seen, but then it obviously wasn’t a broken-down slum bar so it was still fairly upscale in his estimation.  _ The Golden Perch, indeed. It’s a wonder it wasn’t christened the sunfish _ , Shepard thought to himself as he headed for the front door. Shepard had to stoop to get inside; the lintel was obviously not designed for anyone over 5’ 5” and was a dark oak to boot. Not something he really wanted to introduce to his forehead.

He maneuvered carefully through the interior carefully, having to watch out for low-slung ceiling beams as well as a clutter of tables and chairs that were most certainly not made with someone more than five and a half feet tall in mind. The bar, when he reached it, did not quite come up to his hips and he dismissed the idea of sitting on one of the barstools immediately. Instead, he genuflected and gave the bartender his best friendly-and-polite smile. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Erebor, and was told that there were dwarves who might know the way staying at this inn?”

The bartender looked at him in stupefaction, apparently unused to tall strangers in non-local fashion asking politely. Shepard sighed and deftly removed a thumbnail-sized lump of gold from the pouch on his belt. He slipped it onto the bar top covertly, making sure his body shielded the move from the rest of the inn. In his experience, it paid not to advertise you had a lot of money in a bar you’d never been to before. 

The bartender blinked, shook his head, and returned Shepard’s friendly smile even as he swiped the nugget off the bar and out of sight with a quick swish of his rag. Since Shepard hadn’t heard it hit the floor it had presumably ended up in the bartender’s pocket, and he had to admire the way the fellow’s smile never slipped. “Indeed we did sir, though they’ve left already early this morning. Headed into Hobbiton, they said, though one of them did enquire about the conditions on the Great East Road to Bree so I expect they’ll be back. What they think to do in Hobbiton I should very much like to know, though. Hobbiton’s a good town full of respectable hobbits who don’t hold with the hullabaloo caused by such scruffy folk.”

The bartender nodded emphatically, and a murmur of agreement swept the scattered patrons who had been blatantly eavesdropping. The locals called themselves Hobbits, apparently, and Shepard made a mental note of the fact. He made a move as if to stand, making sure his smile remained in place. “Then if you would be so good as to direct me towards Hobbiton…” 

The bartender flapped a careless hand in a gesture that was presumably an indication Shepard should remain seated. “No need for that, sir! The Brandywine Bridge is the only way to cross the Brandywine for a score of miles, and connects directly to the Great East Road. They’ll be back when they want to leave, if their road lies to the East.” “If not, there’s a whole settlement of dwarves to the North and West,” came an unexpected interjection from behind the barkeep. 

Shepard looked, and spotted a tipsy-looking hobbit gesturing with his mug at one of the further tables. “My old Da used to do business with ‘em, up by Needlehole. They had the finest farming and gardening tools and all they wanted was food! Trade’s dropped off a bit of recent, but they’re still there sure as sure.” Shepard considered briefly, but ultimately he didn’t know if those dwarves would have any information about “Erebor.” He had definitive intelligence that the dwarves who had visited this inn did.

Shepard sighed internally, already chafing at the thought of sitting still and waiting, but nodded amiably at the bartender. “I think I’ll take my chances here. After all, a whole settlement is unlikely to uproot itself overnight. If these dwarves don’t know anything I can try there next.” He shifted around until he was seated more comfortably on the floor, bringing a nearby table to a usable height. “Until then, I think I’d like to try your food. And a round of ale on me.” This announcement was met with much approval and the bartender scuttled away, calling for his wife to come out and help.

* * *

 

Two bowls of stew, four pot pies, half a roast rabbit, three fruit tartlets, and four tankards of ale later, Shepard set down his fork with a contented sigh. While the Citadel wasn’t on short rations anymore, there were still limits and while protein paste had been made available to all registered biotics it wasn’t exactly something to inspire the appetite. Every biotic in his acquaintance choked down the bare minimum of the stuff to survive, and Shepard hadn’t been able to resist the smells coming from the kitchen here and now.

Shepard was still sitting on the floor, but the bartender’s wife had insisted on going to get him a cushion. She’d been increasingly star-struck as she alternated with her husband in carrying out dishes of food. Apparently, he was the first person of his stature she’d encountered that had what she referred to as “a proper appetite!” He’d ended up attracting quite a crowd by the time he’d finished, a number of hobbits coming in in a manner trying to be nonchalant and failing. Most of them ended up goggling at him in astonishment, and a small cheer went up as he dabbed his lips somewhat theatrically with his napkin.

“That’s the best meal I’ve had in literal years,” he told the beaming bartender and nodded to his equally proud wife “You are an excellent cook. My compliments to the chef!” the other hobbits cheered loudly and she blushed a deep red and preened under all the attention.

The other hobbits, emboldened by Shepard’s approach to a hearty meal, swarmed his table and began introducing themselves. “Berian Brandybuck, at your service. I’ve never seen a Big Person so keen on food!” “Aster Proudfoot! Where are you from, sir? You could have been raised by hobbits!” And so on. Shepard made the acquaintance of more than twelve hobbits, and that number only grew as the day wore on. They were surprisingly polite, settling down to talk after introductions were complete.

As the sun set - and after another meal that had the hobbits around him murmuring in appreciation - Shepard caught the barkeep’s eye and motioned him over. It took him a few minutes to make his way - the inn had filled considerably, and both the keeper and his wife had been on the hop filling orders and serving drinks - and when he finally did arrive Shepard made a polite inquiry about the possibility of a room for the evening. The bartender shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t have rooms big enough enough for your folk. Not even if you slept on the floor, not that the missus would allow it.” 

Shepard accepted this philosophically - he’d been thrown out of better places for worse reasons and at least this ejection seemed unlikely to involve any fish - and bade the room at large a courteous goodnight before making his way carefully out of the inn.

Hobbiton was further inside the Shire - he’d learned the name during one of the day’s conversations - but as this was the only road that lead to the Brandywine Bridge and therefore out of the Shire, Shepard felt he was probably safe camping along the side of the road to catch the dwarves on their way out. Plus, from what he’d heard from the other hobbits inside the people of Hobbiton would not look kindly on his intrusion and the last thing he wanted to do was be banned from the area entirely; he had vague plans of bringing Kaidan on holiday here at some point so he, too, could enjoy the food.

Finding a soft patch of grass underneath the boughs of a relatively old oak tree not far from the pathway, Shepard settled himself down for the night. He reflected briefly that it was probably one of the more comfortable things he’d slept on while camping, and fell asleep to the sounds of peeper frogs filling the night air.


	9. Meetings in the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard joins the Company

A jingling noise woke him, and the clop of hooves on the cobbled road. Jerking upright, Shepard rubbed one eye as he took in the scene before him. Thirteen short, bearded men riding ponies were making their way down the road towards the Perch, accompanied by an old man on a horse and an aggrieved-looking hobbit on another pony. The bearded men had noticed his return to verticality and regarded him with varying degrees of suspicion or interest, while the hobbit seemed more concerned with trying to figure out how to hold the reins on his pony correctly.

They didn’t seem inclined to stop, not for waking up one man who’d been sleeping on the side of the road, and Shepard grabbed his knapsack and staggered after them, still more asleep than awake. “Wait, wait! I need to talk to you,” he half-shouted, bringing the entire column to a halt. One of the black-haired ones regarded him with cold blue eyes. “So talk,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice, tinged with more than a hint of suspicion.

“Do you know where Erebor is, and how to get there from here?” Whatever they’d been expecting him to say - one with particularly intricate braids had been glaring at one with hair improbably shaped like a starfish - that question was not it. A good number of them looked at the black-haired blue-eyed one who’d spoken, who in turn looked at a benevolent-looking older fellow with white hair and a beard that, to Shepard’s not-quite awake brain, appeared to be made of clouds. 

“And why would you want to be knowing that, laddie?” The white-haired dwarf asked, eyes glinting with an intelligence betraying the kindly tone of his question. In answer, Shepard began shuffling through his through his bag, taking slightly longer than usual because he was still waking up. Finally, he managed to pull the contracts out of their pocket and held them out to the white-haired dwarf.  The dwarf took them, leafing through them slowly, but picking up speed. 

When he’d finished skimming them, he fixed a serious look on Shepard. “And what are your intentions?” “Retrieval,” Shepard stated firmly, all traces of sleepiness gone. He looked the dwarf straight in the eye. “I intend to get everything out and finish these contracts.” There was a murmur from the other dwarves, and the white-bearded one looked back at the surly black-haired one. Surly nodded shortly, and cloud-beard looked back at Shepard.

“We are in fact headed to Erebor ourselves, laddie. However, before you make the request I suspect you wish to, would mind giving us a few moments to speak in private?” The dwarf was courteous but there was a hint of steel in his voice that suggested that pushing it would be an unwise idea. Shepard cocked his head but nodded, stepping a polite distance away and reaching into his bag. He’d disarranged the interior, looking for his papers, and used the opportunity to get the contents back into some kind of order.

It took the dwarves the better part of half an hour to finish their discussion, and Shepard went back over to the dwarf with the white cloud-beard (that mental image was never going away). “What’s the word?” he asked as soon as he was back in earshot. The white haired dwarf shared one last glance with the black-haired dwarf - who was probably the leader of this merry band if Shepard was reading his social cues correctly - before answering.

“Your request comes as something of a surprise, laddie. You see, Erebor fell to the claws of a dragon almost 100 years ago.” Shepard blinked in surprise, a line in one of Frendsehn’s letters suddenly making a great deal of sense. “This Company of dwarves was formed to attempt to take the mountain back from the foul beast, and bring the dwarves of Erebor home. If you need to retrieve whatever was left in the vault specified by these contracts, then you have to hope we can kill the monster and retake Erebor.”

Shepard stared in silence for a long moment, looking for any hint of jocularity, but the dwarf appeared entirely serious. “A dragon. A large, fire-breathing reptile with wings, kicked an entire city’s worth of people off of a mountain.” They had to be kidding; archetypal dragons didn’t exist (though some of the things on Palaven came close). A dwarf with a splendid moustache and not much beard nodded enthusiastically. “Furnace with wings, yep. Though, he did kick the dwarves out of the mountain and not off of it.”

Shepard blinked for a few moments, then shrugged. Seeing Kalross, the Mother of All Thresher Maws, eat an entire Reaper had really put things into perspective insofar as huge, hungry monsters were concerned. “All right. Could you use some help with that?” He delivered the question in his best “Commander Shepard, Saviour of the Galaxy” voice. Getting them to take him where he needed to go was infinitely preferable to wandering around lost by himself. Plus he had fifteen shots in his Executioner and it’d only taken him six to kill the Thresher Maw during Grunt’s Rite. He resolutely ignored the memory of Mordin burning through that thing’s armor in between shots; Grunt had been shooting sporadically, splitting his time between the maw and the klixen.

The dwarves looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Shepard scowled, but before he could start listing off his qualifications another dwarf spoke up. “Why? What’s so important to you inside Erebor?” The speaker was a dwarf who looked much younger than most of the others, if beard length and thickness were any indication of age.

Shepard closed his eyes briefly, a vision of EDI sitting in the copilot’s seat battering at his conscience. He shook the thought away as he re-focused on the dwarf. “It’s the salvation of an entire species if I can retrieve what’s left in Erebor. It’s important enough to risk my life for. Besides,” he said with somewhat forced jocularity, “I’ve killed Thresher Maws with pistols and shot a Reaper while standing far too close for comfort. A dragon can’t be worse than either of those.” Equal to, maybe, but unlikely to be worse.

The old man in grey seemed to find this statement interesting. “Do you mean to say that you would be willing and able to kill a dragon?” The question was accompanied by a puff of pipe-smoke that seemed -  just for an instant - to make the shape of a batwinged lizard with the smokey suggestion of fire in front of its face. Shepard nodded sharply. “Give it my best shot, anyway. I’ve survived two wars with a side of sucking vacuum in between; it’d be a shame to die now.”

The dwarves seemed somewhere between impressed, confused, and nonplussed at his answer but the old man merely nodded. The white-bearded dwarf looked at the black-bearded one, and the other nodded decisively. White-beard sighed, and slid off his pony. A gingery dwarf with a bowl cut hurried to follow suit and pulled a bundle of parchment from his saddlebags before joining them.

White beard cleared his throat before speaking. “My name is Balin, and the group before you are the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, Son of Thror, and heir to the Throne Under The Mountain, formed to take back Erebor from the dragon Smaug and reclaim our homeland.” Shepard nodded seriously; he remembered Thessia, Earth, Palaven - entire worlds lost, and reclaimed with blood, sweat, and an endless ocean of tears. “Now, your aid in our quest is voluntary and you sought us, and are therefore not entitled to a share of the gold. However, we are willing to amend your own contract and waive the balance owed for ending the contract and emptying the vault, as we have not guarded it properly in more than a hundred years and you are helping us kill a dragon.”

Bowl-cut had been scribbling furiously, first on one piece of parchment then another. As Balin finished his speech, Bowl-cut handed the parchment to the older dwarf who looked it over seriously before holding them out to Shepard. “Now, if you’ll sign this one first, it is a document acknowledging that you have no right to any of the treasure of Erebor.” Shepard took the offered quill and painstakingly scrawled his name - the ancient writing utensil was certainly not user-friendly.

He was fine with not getting any gold. It was all well and good if you were making delicate electronics but the only thing Shepard had done with delicate electronics was break them. Plus he’d been put off of the ornamental qualities of gold after the semi-disastrous and definitely humiliating mission with Kasumi on Bekenstein. He had his hamster, the k9 companion unit he had yet to get out of the shuttlebay, the now-completely-inert husk head which had been considering disposing of, he had the Normandy herself, and he had Kaidan - he couldn’t ask for more.

Balin inspected the signature on this first sheet even as the younger dwarf handed him another. When he’d signed that one too, and it had been inspected carefully by the older dwarf, Balin looked up at him with a smile. “Well, that seems to be in order. Welcome to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield,” here he indicated the scowling black-haired dwarf and Shepard nodded at him - which only served to make the scowl worse. “Beside him is my brother Dwalin.” This was accompanied by a nod to a ferociously scowling bald dwarf to Thorin’s left. “On his other side are Fili and Kili, and these three here are Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur.” Here he pointed at two dwarves that Shepard had a feeling Hackett would have called ‘punks’, followed by a gesture to a distinctly unbalanced trio where odd headgear seemed to be the norm. “Those two are Oin and Gloin, and this is my apprentice Ori and his brothers, Dori and Nori.” An older dwarf and a brilliantly red-haired dwarf nodded to him, and the aide - Ori - squeaked as Shepard inspected him - which in turn earned Shepard a scowl from a dwarf whose hair and beard were braided tightly to his head and a cryptic look from starfish-head.

Shepard returned nods where he got them, and gave blandly polite smiles to the scowlers. “I am Gandalf the Grey, at your service,” the old man said when the dwarves had finished, puffing a cloud of smoke from his pipe in Shepard’s direction. Shepard stifled the urge to ask him whether the name was the cause of the outfit or vice versa, but contrary to what Hackett might say Shepard DID know when not to ask a question. 

“And I am Bilbo Baggins, of Bag-End,” came a voice from behind him and Shepard turned to find that at some point the Hobbit he’d noticed at the end of the column had hopped off his pony and walked up behind him without Shepard noticing. Shepard blinked, but took the offered hand and gave it a firm shake. Anderson had taught him that - it wasn’t a finger-crushing contest, but a good handshake was always firm. “Commander John Mikeus Shepard, Alliance Navy detached on duty with Special Tactics and Recon.”

The Hobbit blinked, and Shepard could hear the dwarves murmuring. They seemed impressed more by the military title than by his Spectre status, going by what he was able to overhear, but Shepard wasn’t complaining. If they gave credence to his titles, they might actually listen to him when it came time to fight the Heavily Armored Monster Who Spits Bad Stuff. “I did say I’d survived two wars.” The dwarves blinked at him, and Balin gave him a speculative look. 

“That you did, laddie. Still, we should be moving. You’ll have to purchase your own mount - likely in Bree-town as this charming village doesn’t seem to cater to one of your….height. The Company will provide rations but your cash supply is your own unless you choose to donate it to our endeavor.” Balin waited until he saw Shepard’s acknowledging nod, then hopped back up onto his own pony in a motion quicker than Shepard would have given credit for to one of his apparent age.

Shepard fell in with the column, taking advantage of his long legs to keep up with the ambling horses. He drifted for awhile, unable to take point and unwilling to drop into the rearguard position, until he finally ended up beside the dwarf called Bifur. Bifur seemed disinclined to talk - probably due to the metal thing in his forehead - but also disinclined to side-eye Shepard suspiciously which put him at better than most of the dwarves. Actually, there wasn’t much audible conversation going on in the rest of the column anyway - plenty of urgent whispers and low undertones but almost nobody was talking outright. The one glaring exception was the Hobbit, Bilbo, who was talking to Bofur about the fields of wheat rolling away on either side. Shepard resigned himself to silence for the duration and kept walking.


	10. "Big City" Bree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations in the town of Bree for the road ahead

Bree was by far the largest city he’d seen yet on this planet, which wasn’t saying much for the planet if he had to be brutally honest. It was busier than Buckland, and larger both vertically and horizontally, but it still didn’t hold a patch to any of the Wards on the Citadel. Eden Prime was bigger than this place, which saying something as the town had seen the blunt end of multiple invasions.

Still, it had a stable which had horses for sale and an inn which was both smoky and full of people - both of which helped to conceal any flagrant violations of health codes besides the obvious fire code violation. Shepard ended up meeting the dwarves at said inn after purchasing and stabling his new means of transport; a stolid mare who looked to be some kind of Percheron offshoot and had greeted him with nothing more than a blink before accepting his presence in her stall. He had a feeling he’d need that kind of unflappable calmness before journey’s end as it’d been a decade or two since he’d last sat on a horse. 

The food at the inn - The Prancing Pony, Shepard had been informed - was adequate, if nothing like as good as the meals he’d eaten at the Golden Perch. He made sure to eat as much as he could stomach anyway, given that his biotics would likely be called upon at some point and he should probably store up as much as he could now while food was reasonably plentiful rather than later on the road when food got uncertain.

He’d also bought travel rations - or what passed for travel rations here - to supplement against need and hopefully stave off the need to actually eat the ration bars that he’d taken from the  _ Pride _ . The shopkeeper had pressed him to buy a tent and bedroll set, but he’d taken one look at the tent and refused and, after much haggling, the shopkeeper had relented and sold him only the bedroll. The bedroll seemed to be some sort of local sleeping bag, but the tent had far too many fiddly pieces to put it up and take it down every night. His N7 training had largely forgone such niceties anyway, so he suspected he wouldn’t feel the lack.

The dwarves seemed largely intent on ignoring him as he ate, instead focusing on the - admittedly quite good - ale and teasing the hobbit, though the latter activity seemed to belong nearly exclusively to the younger members of the Company. The youngest - Kili? - seemed bound and determined to drive the hobbit up the wall by continually referring to him as “Mister Boggins.” Shepard smirked into his own mug of ale as the hobbit flushed a brilliant crimson at yet another raunchy joke from the golden-haired Fili, accompanied by broad gestures from Kili. Shepard had told worse stories himself back at boot camp, never mind what Garrus, Wrex, and/or Grunt had gotten up to spouting in the Normandy’s mess hall.

“I see you find their antics amusing,” said Greybeard - Gandalf - as he settled into a seat on Shepard’s left. Shepard made an ‘ehhh’ gesture with his free hand. “I’ve heard better. Besides, it’s more about the audience,” he replied, nodding towards Mr. Baggins. Said Baggins had a blush going all the way to the tips of his pointed ears and appeared to be contemplating drowning himself in his own mug. The older man smiled benignly and took a puff from his apparently ever-present pipe. “I prefer much different stories, myself, but I’ve always found the tellers to be the most interesting part of any good story.” He gave Shepard a bland look even better than Samara’s - which was saying something. “I imagine a man such as yourself would have many fine stories of your own.”

Shepard shrugged, elaborately. “I might,” he answered. He wasn’t the first N7 people thought of when they wanted a covert operative, but he knew when someone was trying to plumb him for information. At least this guy knew when to be circumspect, which was more than he could say for a large number of people who’d tried similar tactics on him. Gandalf puffed at his pipe in a silence that Shepard let stretch like saltwater taffy before finally turning to look at the Spectre with eyes as deep and old as any Asari Matriarch’s Shepard had ever seen.

“As it so happens, I was there for the negotiation and signing of the contract which even now you carry in your pack, and I cannot help but wonder how they came to be in your possession.” It wasn’t a question, not really, but it invited explanation. Shepard shrugged shortly. “Eleanora Frendsehn came to me with an offer just before everything went straight to Hell in a handbasket. The Second Battle for the Citadel was a real shitshow, and she didn’t make it. I’m here in her place,”  _ because I did _ hung unsaid at the end of the sentence and Gandalf shifted in his seat, a brief look of sorrow crossing his features like a cloud.

“That is a great pity, for she was a refreshing young woman. Still, I had not heard of any great battles recently?” Shepard shook his head; even after the better part of a year, the Reaper War was still too raw. Gandalf nodded and leaned back, puffing his pipe philosophically. “Hm. Well, then, I must confess that my curiosity is piqued. What did she store in that vault that would bring a veteran such as yourself all the way to Bree - so very far from the Lonely Mountain - in search of it?”

Shepard held out both hands, clenched into fists and pressed wrist to wrist. “Solid quartz balls about yay big. They contain crucial data for restoring a race made extinct in the War.” An extinction he had chosen for them. The now-familiar, gutwrenching stab of guilt made him look away, across the inn to where Mr. Baggins appeared to have successfully drowned something in his mug and, with the help of a few of his countrymen, now appeared to be multitasking - that is, standing a reasonable degree of ‘up’ and singing what was probably a drinking song (Shepard was too far away to hear the words in the crowded common room).

Gandalf seemed troubled by the revelation, his eyebrows coming together over his nose with a nearly audible click. “Do you mean to say you have thousands of palantiri stored within the halls of Erebor?” he demanded, straightening up. Shepard frowned as his translator passed the word without a meaning attached to it. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the term,” he answered politely even as he set his mug down and out of the way on the table. “Palantiri are tools of great power, allowing the user to see and influence things far away in space - and time, on occasion. Most unfortunately, it also allows anyone else with a palantir free and unfettered access to the user’s mind and will,” Gandalf finished grimly, smoke and the flickering illumination combining to make him appear bigger and more threatening than he had before. Shepard side-eyed the older man as he puffed on his pipe, wreathing himself in still more smoke. “Most of the palantiri heretofore on Arda have been lost to the shadows, making them extraordinarily dangerous to use.” The piercing grey eyes pinned Shepard with one look, and a huge ball of fire sporting one slit pupil hovered on the edge of his vision for a brief moment.

Shepard shifted in his seat, both uncomfortable and confused by the man’s words. The explanation having been cleared as mud, he still wasn’t sure what a ‘palantir’ actually was - but he was almost 100% certain that Frendsehn’s storage solution was not what Gandalf was talking about. “Can’t say I understand any more than I did before you tried to explain it, but that’s not what Frendsehn stored. They’re more like diaries, written in the crystal, that take special tools to read. If there’s any justice left in the universe, it’ll be enough to restore what the universe lost when the Crucible fired.” Shepard leaned forward, resting his head on his hands for a long moment, the heat and filth and pain of the last run to the Citadel beam rising up in the back of his throat until he felt like choking on it. 

Firing the Crucible had taken everything he’d had left, and made one hell of an impression. He hadn’t been able to fire his own sidearm for months after he’d recovered, stealing one of Jack’s shotguns whenever he needed to shoot something. She had been less than amused by that, and it took her less than twenty minutes to get him back to firing his own weapons and leaving hers alone. Funnily enough, she still let Grunt use them but Shepard didn’t want to think about that too much….

Gandalf puffed a gusty sigh, and patted Shepard on the shoulder. “We all do what we must when it is demanded of us, but rarely is it easy.” From the smell the old man had probably puffed his pipe again but Shepard was disinclined to look up and see. “I think,” said the greybeard, enunciating carefully, “that there is something more than mere chance that set you on the trail of your contract here, and at this late date. Yes, your presence may very well be crucial to the eventual success of this quest. Hmph!” He puffed merrily at his pipe while Shepard raised his head to give him a deadpan stare. That was nonsense and they both knew it.

The old madman’s eyes had the audacity to twinkle as Shepard continued to stare at him. He sighed and gave up as Gandalf gave every sign of being perfectly happy to sit in this fashion for the rest of the night. It must be an old man thing, Shepard decided, because Anderson - and wasn’t that an old, familiar pain - had never succumbed to a stare either and God knows it’d certainly never worked on Hackett. 

Pushing away from his thoughts and the table with a sigh, Shepard headed to the room he’d rented for the night. It wasn’t as bad as a number of rooms he’d slept in over the years, and tomorrow had all the earmarks of a long and hard day. Might as well catch some z’s while he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the short chapter but it just feels like the place to break. Might come back and add more later


	11. Fight Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard doesn't start fights but he'll do his best to finish them

In point of fact, the day went rather peacefully. The vast majority of the dwarves were various stages of hungover, preferring to wince at the sunlight and shrill birdsong while riding in sullen silence rather than speaking. The younger ones were feeling more rambunctious come evening, however, after the Company and camped for the evening. Shepard dismissed their antics as baseless fearmongering - more senior members of a party trying to scare the newbies with ghost stories. He wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to get Mr. Baggins - their current target - to go on a snipe hunt with them, but they left Shepard alone after a complete failure to get a rise out of him.

One of the older dwarves - Thorin - took a somewhat dimmer view of their actions, jumping on them with both feet for making light of a night ambush. Shepard saw where he was coming from, and kept quiet; ghost stories were one thing, but he’d been on the wrong end of too many night raids to make it very damn funny to hear that one could be in the offing. Apparently Thorin had had similar experiences, according to Balin. Shepard listened, fascinated, as the old dwarf wove a tale of battle and woe better than any vid Shepard had seen recently. There was just one sour note.

“The filth died of his wounds long ago,” Thorin spat when Mr. Baggins innocently inquired after the fate of the Pale Orc, Azog. Shepard made a noise of disagreement, leaning back onto his bedroll as he did so. “I wouldn’t bet money on it, not without habeaus corpus. All it would take is something hot enough to cauterize the stump  and he’d probably live.” Shepard shifted, trying to get comfortable on the rocky ground. “Of course, I can’t imagine he’s too happy about the fact. Might be worth getting a disguise together if we have to pass near his turf.”

In the tense silence that followed that pronouncement, Shepard dropped off into a fitful sleep filled with images from London and airless vacuums so cold they burned. His mood upon wakening was not improved in the slightest by a steady, stolid rain. The dwarves didn’t seem nearly as cheerful either when faced with such weather, and most of them echoed Shepard in stoic silence while riding - though Shepard had the private consolation of quick-drying synthweave clothing and a sort of light armoring rigged from his destroyed gear that was at least hydrophobic.

Three days of unrelenting rain later and even Shepard was done with this shit. He hadn’t been THIS wet since the unfortunate incident at the sushi bar, and at least there he’d been able to blame someone else which had helped improve his mood a bit. He’d been briefly tempted to ask the dwarves to check his clothing for fish but had decided against it in the end because they likely wouldn’t get the joke (or appreciate it if they did).

Shepard snorted into his collar when Bofur began ragging on Gandalf to change the weather, then had to pretend to have stifled a sneeze when the aforementioned dwarf shot him a look. A tall hat and long stick didn’t actually make you a wizard, and the best biotic in the universe couldn’t change the weather. Make a group-sized rain shield, maybe, but not actually change the sky overhead. The old man sniffily told off the offending dwarves that it was raining and would continue to rain until it could rain no more, and not even the great wizards could change that fact. 

Shepard snickered quietly to himself, schadenfreude having gone a long way towards improving his mood, as the hobbit started in. It was hard to tell if he was doing it on purpose to annoy Gandalf, but his perfectly innocent tone when asking if a fellow named Radagast was a great wizard…...or more like Gandalf. Shepard wasn’t the only one smothering his mirth in his sleeve after that remark, and Gandalf puffed about Radagast being a very great wizard in his eyes. Shepard mentally tagged him as ‘more like Gandalf, then’ and wondered briefly at the thought of a Society of Wandering Geezers in various colors of bathrobes.

Shepard was somewhat less than successful at masking his laughter, and Gandalf shot him a dirty look before his expression smoothed into a suspicious blankness. “And what of yourself, Master Shepard? What kind of Man are you to be entrusted with a vault withdrawal?” Shepard gave him a dry look but the old man maintained his facade and Shepard would bet every last credit he’d won on Urz over the years that the rest of the Company was listening with avid interest. 

“It’s Commander Shepard, actually. Or Spectre, if you’d prefer. One of the Alliance’s best and brightest marines, depending on who you’re talking to.” Not Hackett - not where Shepard could hear him anyway - but most of the Alliance brass was happy to say so at length to any news source who would ask them. The numerous reprimands for disobeying orders and deviating from standard protocol had been the subject of an intensive hush campaign after Sovereign’s defeat in the First Battle of the Citadel, and somehow managed to stay that way even after the Aratoht disaster. He’d even, after his demise over Alchera, been the Alliance’s poster boy for a while - a fact which Garrus took great pleasure in informing him of after Omega, apparently having won the honor from Joker and a few engineering crewmen in a game of Skyllian Five. 

Gandalf seemed a bit put out by the abrupt answer, but before he could press further in what Shepard was sure was an attempt to get him back for laughing, Bofur spoke up. “So a marine is like a warrior, then?” Shepard shrugged. “Where I come from, yeah. In the Alliance, anyway.” He was pretty sure the Krogan word for warrior was ‘Krogan’; he’d yet to meet any Krogans he’d consider ‘civilians’ and a fair number who’d pull your arms off if you associated them with the term. Even Krogan children were liable to try and chop your legs off at the knees if they felt the situation warranted it (Wrex had thought the whole thing hilarious and had to be told to quit laughing and help, dammit, before actually prying the youngling off; Shepard had never been more grateful for the barrier tricks Kaidan had managed to beat into his thick skull).

“Have you done much fighting, then?” The question came from a young dwarf with an unflattering bowl cut - Ori, riding with his brothers Dori and Nori. “I think you could safely say that, yes.” Shepard smiled thinly at the group and Ori blinked while Nori gave him a beady look. “What’s a thresher maw, then? You mentioned them when you joined up but I’ve never heard of the like.” Nori gave him an almost challenging stare and Shepard dipped his head, acknowledging the point.

“It’s a giant worm with acidic spit caustic enough to eat through heavy armor in a matter of seconds. They live underground, coming up to the surface only if they sense prey.” He frowned, remembering the reports about first encounters with them on Akuze. “The adult maws have heads the size of hab domes, and the Mother of All Thresher Maws - Kalross - is big enough to eat four towns the size of Bree and still have room for more.”  _ But she liked the Reaper just fine, _ he thought with no small amount of vindictive pleasure.

There were several long moments of silence while the dwarves digested this, before Fili - whom Shepard would have bet on still being thoroughly cowed after receiving a dressing-down from Thorin that very morning - broke the silence with another question. “What’s a hab dome?”

Shepard blinked in surprise. Of all things, they wanted to know about habitation domes? He mentally shrugged. “They’re prefabricated buildings - houses and the like - that are brought in to give people a place to live while they start building properly. They’re used primarily for newer settlements, but you’re likely to find some in the center of even the most firmly established human colonies.”

The dwarves seemed to find the idea fascinating, if the sudden debate that sprang up on the topic was any indication. Shepard settled back into the saddle and let the conversation wash over him as the miles plodded by, content to listen with only minor contributions to the conversation. The day passed without further incident, and the rain continued on through the night so that by morning everyone was back to being snappish and irritable and sullen silence became preferable to actual discourse.

The discovery of an abandoned farmhouse near sunset was enough to lift everyone’s spirits, and the rain gradually slacking off as they made camp put everyone in a mood that could be described as approaching ebullient. There was dry ground beneath the remains of the eaves, and enough dry firewood to keep a fire going all night - which hopefully meant dry socks in the morning. The uplift in overall mood unfortunately meant Fili and Kili started acting on their considerably improved spirits and Thorin eventually banished them to look after the ponies when they nearly upset the cooking-pot for the third time.

Not everyone was best pleased with the finding of the farmhouse. Gandalf inspected the place and did not seem best-pleased with what he’d found; a short argument with Thorin had the old man storming off in high dudgeon and left Shepard feeling considerably less sanguine about their apparent good luck. He snagged Bilbo as the hobbit walked past, said hobbit having been quite a bit closer and better able to hear the argument, to find out what that was all about.

“Gandalf was angry that Thorin wouldn’t move the camp someplace else. He thinks that whatever caused this house to become abandoned might still be around.” Bilbo looked worried, and Shepard took a covert look around before smiling reassuringly at him. “Gandalf may or may not be right, but a group of fifteen heavily armed people tend to discourage things that would find isolated loggers to be easy prey.” The hobbit looked around at Shepard’s words and seemed to notice the profusion of weaponry for the first time, a look of relief crossing his face as he nodded to Shepard and hurried over to help Bombur with supper.

Shepard let his smile drop and felt his mouth set in a grim line. Gandalf was right; the timbers of the house were broken - smashed - instead of rotted or burnt. The wood was still sound, though the broken ends had weathered quite a bit, and there wasn’t any visible fungus beyond some lichen. There were no saplings, only springy undergrowth - it hadn’t happened that long ago. And parts of the roof had come down as well - whatever had smashed the roof in had either been removed, or removed itself which would put the whatever-it-was as taller than the roof. Shepard took another long look at the remains of the hovel and went to go get his toolkit from his pack. Tonight did not feel like a night to have his gun malfunction while firing and it’d been a bit since he’d done any tune-ups. 

As he worked on his weapons, he noticed a certain amount of interest in his weapons but before anyone worked themselves up to ask, Bombur announced that dinner was ready. Shepard packed up his equipment before heading to get his bowlful of stew. Bilbo had been sent off with stew for the two hellions, and the meal was relatively quiet as everyone enjoyed the first hot food they’d had in days. Shepard had just finished his own portion and was contemplating the possibility of getting seconds when Fili burst into the campsite, braids wildly tangled around his face.

“Trolls! They have the ponies! And Bilbo!”

Thorin was on his feet and on his way out of the clearing before Kili had even finished speaking and the rest of the company was not far behind. Shepard didn’t know what the hell trolls were but Thorin’s reaction told him that, whatever else they were, they weren’t friendlies.

The dwarves were surprisingly quick on their feet and Shepard ended up just behind Dwalin as the burst into a firelit clearing, rather than foremost to soak up the brunt of the assault as was his wont. The sight of the three huge forms, one of them holding the hobbit over an enormous cauldron, was enough to have him flourishing his Krogan-forged blade - he hadn’t wanted to risk firearms in close combat with fifteen friendlies and unknown hostiles - giving his best rebel yell, one that rose and bucked above the war-cries of the dwarves, basso proclamations that the Dwarves were here and fighting.

The wave of dwarves crashed onto the first two trolls, and Shepard vaulted the line to get at the third who had staggered back in shock. He didn’t dare flare his biotics in a Nova or Charge the troll that had just sent Nori and Ori flying, however much he wanted to; the quarters were just too close and he stood a greater risk of harming friendlies than he did of ending foes. Additionally, he’d be more likely than not to eat through the rest of their rations afterward just trying to fuel up and that was just not a good idea this far from succor.

The fight descended into a disjointed melee the likes of which Shepard hadn’t partaken of in years - not since the last time he’d gotten into a drunken barfight on shore leave with some of his N7 peers. Things seemed to be going well when everything came to a screeching halt - a rough voice had broken through the din. “Throw down your arms or we’ll tear his off!”

Shepard looked up in horror to find Mr. Baggins held splayed in midair by two of the trolls, a look somewhere between panicked and, strangely, resigned on his face. Shepard side-eyed Thorin, worried for a moment that the dwarf would make a go of it, but the dwarf let his sword fall to the ground with a glower at the trolls. Shepard’s own shorter blade joined the sword in the dirt a moment later, the blade blackened by troll blood (troll #3 was missing a few fingers and most of the use of his left leg). The other dwarves followed Thorin’s lead with varying degrees of truculence, with Dwalin being the last and most reluctant to let his weapons fall.

The trolls wasted no time in securing their new prisoners, picking up some and cramming them into sacks while others - Shepard included - were tied to an enormous spit that had been quickly assembled over the fire. From what Shepard could gather, he’d been selected for the spit group because the trolls didn’t have a large enough sack to hold him and Shepard couldn’t decide how that felt. 

Shepard wasn’t given much to time to ponder that information as the spit began to turn and he grimaced as the flames licked up at him from below. One of the few things his biotic barriers would not protect him from were extremes in temperature - a lesson hammered brutally home on Noveria. Giving up on the idea of flaring - even if he did break the ropes that way they’d only all end up in the fire - he instead turned his attention to getting his omni-tool into such a position as to allow him to extend the omni-blade without shanking anyone on accident - especially himself.

So engrossed was he with his task that he completely missed Bilbo’s  wordplay with the trolls until the dwarves around him began hollering about, of all things, intestinal parasites. He poked the dwarf nearest his elbow - a distinctly red Gloin - and hissed “What’s going on?” Gloin’s response was to thump him back and continue to yell. Shepard scowled and was about to try again when Gandalf’s voice rang out over the din. 

“Dawn take you all!”

Shepard stared in amazement as the light that poured through the newly-cracked boulder hit the trolls like a freight train. A symphony of pops and cracks echoed across the clearing as they clearly petrified in the light. Shepard wasn’t a scientist but he’d never heard of anything like this. The brief and painful thought of all the kittens Mordin would be having about the phenomenon if he were here crossed his mind and he shoved it away. There would be time for that later; right this second the spit had stopped turning so the people facing the fire were getting distinctly crispy.

A fair amount of cursing, snapping, and grumbling later saw everyone back on their own two feet with weapons holstered securely and minor injuries treated. Shepard took the opportunity to move his guns from his pack to the holsters he had for them - rifle went on the left shoulder blade and the pistol on the right hip. He wasn’t about to get caught so flat-footed again; the troll fight would have gone very differently if he’d remembered to grab his guns on the way out of the campsite.

Of course, no sooner had he done so than Gandalf announced that it was likely the trolls had a base nearby and Shepard’s pistol was in his hand without conscious thought. It didn’t take them long to find the cave - more of a burrow, dug out of brittle limestone - and the dwarves seemed puzzled by Shepard when he took point and swept the cave thoroughly and professionally. 

Thankfully there was nothing else living in the cave - likely due to the minor bioweapon that the smell of the place qualified as. Not even the charnel-house stench of the Reaper-occupied Citadel had made his eyes water like this cave did, and Shepard retreated to fresher air at the earliest opportunity. On his way out, sleeve over his face, he endured disgruntled looks from several of the dwarves who were apparently miffed that he’d secured the leading position on the expedition into this reeking hellhole. 

Shepard shrugged mentally and holstered his pistol. Said pistol had been designed to bring down battle-maddened Krogan with one shot; if there had been more trolls in the cave they would have met a loud and messy end. If the dwarves wanted to resent his superior firepower, well, more fool them.

Spotting Mr. Baggins sitting on a flat stone some little ways away and clearly reluctant to come nearer, Shepard ambled over and settled on the ground nearby, noting as he did so that the position caught enough of a breeze that you almost couldn’t smell the cavern. Approving of the hobbit’s good sense, Shepard leaned against the stone and looked at a particularly interesting tree off to his left. “You know, it occurs to me to wonder how the trolls managed to capture both the ponies and yourself. They didn’t seem to be the subtle types.” His voice was neutral, the implied question belied by the conversational tone.

Silence stretched between them like taffy, until Bilbo’s quiet murmur broke it. “The trolls already had the ponies by the time I had arrived. There were, perhaps, some arguments made about whether or not I should retrieve them but in the end the point was rendered moot; I really had no choice but to try.” Shepard nodded, reflecting that perhaps it hadn’t taken as much arguing as all that, seeing as Mr. Baggins had - while the trolls were otherwise occupied - managed to slip off and loose the trapped ponies. 

Of course, the ponies had promptly stampeded back through the campsite and started the rest of the animals into flight with them. Shepard was philosophical about the loss - he’d been humping his own supplies on trips since day one of boot camp and it wasn’t like a body could lose the knack - but the dwarves had lamented the loss at length. Mr. Baggins hadn’t looked too sanguine about the news either, but Shepard had contingency plans to snitch as much of the weight out of the hobbit’s pack as he could feasibly get away with and put it in his own pack. The group was only as fast as the slowest member, after all, and Shepard only had so much time before someone arrived looking for him - be it Kaidan and the Normandy’s crew or Hackett and half the Alliance fleet.

Shepard’s thoughts were interrupted as Gandalf emerged from the stinking hole and called Bilbo over. The hobbit nodded a polite farewell to him and went over to the crazy old man. Shepard watched idly as the two spoke in low tones, the argument finally coming to a halt when the grey-hatted wizard pushed a serviceable, if small, blade into bilbo’s arms. Mr. Baggins accepted the blade reluctantly, buckling the sheath around his waist gingerly, like the thing was a snake about to bite him. He wasn’t entirely wrong - a weapon in the hands of the untrained was just as likely to hurt them as the enemy - but Shepard thought it unlikely that a sheathed sword was going to do much damage. 

He patted the large knife in its holder against his spine and smiled faintly. Grunt would be delighted to hear what uses Shepard was putting the blade to and telling the excitable Krogan was something to look forward to. In addition, the knife was proving more helpful than the standard omni-blade he had attached to his omni-tool because he couldn’t parry like he needed to with the omni-blade - it was too fragile. 

Shepard’s moment of amused introspection was cut abruptly short as the bushes rustled violently. He was on his feet in an instant, gun in hand, tracking the rustling with the muzzle as the movement approached. The dwarves spread out into a skirmish line with weapons at the ready, Kili to Shepard’s immediate left and Dwalin to his immediate right. Mr. Baggins was shoved unceremoniously behind the line and even Gandalf had put a wary hand on the sword he’d found in the troll-hoard.

It was almost a disappointment, therefore, when a team of ridiculously sized rabbits pulling a sled burst through the underbrush like a mad parody of an Iditarod team. While these were unlikely to be killer rabbits, Shepard kept his weapon trained on the cavalcade until Gandalf stepped forward and greeted the driver - an older man wearing a raggedy brown robe and improbably hat - by name.

Shepard shook his head and holstered his gun again - he only had fifteen shots for the pistol and if Gandalf knew this fellow it was probably unwise to try gunning him down. 

The motion attracted the attention of Nori, who narrowed his eyes at the pistol even as he sheathed his own weapon. “By the way, what  _ is _ that?” he asked quietly, sidling up beside Shepard while the wizards had their tête–à–tête. “My pistol. Executioner base with a few modifications - it’ll drop a Krogan with one shot for all I’m no marksman.” Shepard patted the weapon lightly; some of the modifications were surprises Kaidan had added for his most recent birthday, which made the weapon just that much important to him. Nori digested the statement for several long moments before looking back at the holstered weapon. “What’s a pistol, then?”

Shepard opened his mouth to reply but before he could utter a word a blood-chilling howl rang from a position far too close to his back for comfort. “Wargs!” The shout sounded like Dwalin but Shepard couldn’t be sure as the beast leapt for him. He had just enough time to pull his knife before the thing was on him, teeth cracking on the carbide-ceramic plating which protected his forearms. The thing didn’t have time to try for another, less-protected bite as Shepard drove the knife in between two ribs, the heavy corpse bearing him to the ground as he overbalanced. 

Shoving the smelly rug off of himself, he scrambled to his feet to find Bofur dispatching another warg with a heavy blow to the head. “Scouts! They know we’re here.” Shepard nodded at Gloin’s assessment and reached down to wrench his knife out of the slowly stiffening body it was lodged in. He wiped as much of the blood off on the fur while the others argued about what their next move should be. Gandalf wanted to head for a place called Rivendell while Thorin would hear nothing of it; the argument ended abruptly as more howls punctuated the breezy morning sunshine and the general consensus reached was “Run like hell and don’t get caught.”

The ensuing chaos was a real trip down memory lane for Shepard, bearing more than a passing resemblance to some of the less fun days during bootcamp. Running all over the landscape carrying a heavy pack and being pursued by a lot of people yelling their heads off? It was uncanny. Of course, the drill instructors (probably) wouldn’t have killed the trainees when they caught them, but other than that….

Shepard considered briefly trying to thin the ranks of their pursuers, but dismissed the thought almost immediately; he wasn’t a marksman and any shots at this range would most likely be just a waste of ammo he couldn’t afford to spare. It wasn’t usually a problem he encountered; normally he’d just Charge right into the biggest bastard he could see, jam the gun somewhere squishy, and pull the trigger. Not a lot of aiming involved in that scenario; unfortunately, they didn’t have enough rations for him to consider his biotics as a choice unless things got more desperate.

Of course, no sooner had the thought occurred to him than things got more desperate. They’d somehow been flanked by a secondary group of warg-riding orcs and were now pinned up against a clump of boulders, surrounded by a semi-circle of wargs and orcs. Shepard gritted his teeth and ozone crackled in the air - if he had to go down, he was going down swinging. He was just about to flare when Gandalf popped his head out of a previously hidden crack in the boulder pile. “This way you fools!” the old man cried, ducking back down to vanish beneath the pile.

Shepard didn’t need telling twice, and dove headfirst after the old coot - a mistake, in hindsight, as he nearly broke his damned neck as he went down a previously hidden slope. This put him in a position to break Bombur’s fall when the dwarf was the next one to come down what probably wasn’t a rabbit hole. Shepard wheezed as the dwarf landed on him - Bombur was near as wide as he was tall, and wearing some form of armor to boot.

When the rest of the Company had tumbled, rolled, fallen, slid, and otherwise made their way beneath the pile of rocks (Bilbo taking a particularly spectacular head-over-heels tumble) they spent a few moments untangling themselves from each other. Nori had to be pulled off Ori, who was in turn pulled off Bombur before Bombur himself managed to get up and off Shepard’s back. Shepard just laid there for several long seconds as he caught his breath back and silently blessed every armor engineer he knew of for the plating that had kept him from being crushed to death.

Eventually Shepard made it back to his feet. He stood wheezing for a few seconds before Dwalin made an important discovery: “Look, the cave leads somewhere! We ought to follow it.” Shepard didn’t have the breath to contest the stupidity of this statement - it didn’t matter what planet you were on, if there was any kind of life on the sphere then chances were good you’d find cave-dwelling specimens of it. 

The whole company began following Dwalin down the tunnel before Shepard could marshal his breath and his arguments, so Shepard swallowed his protest and followed along. It wasn’t really a tunnel; the top was open to the air, so it was more likely a crevasse of some sort. Bilbo, Shepard, and Gandalf made up the end on the cavalcade, and Shepard got more suspicious by the step as the Old Man and His Hat’s smile got bigger and bigger.

Before Shepard could demand Gandalf let him in on the joke, the crevasse abruptly expanded, dropping away into a verdant canyon, cliffs rising on all sides to frame one of the most beautiful cities Shepard had ever seen. Architecture as soaring and delicate as the finest Asari temples graced the tops of waterfalls that, in their turn, caught and scattered the light into a million leaping rainbows.

Gandalf came to a stop just behind the rest of the Company and spoke loudly. “Welcome to Imladris, the Last Homely House East of the Sea. You might know it better in the Common Tongue as-” “Rivendell,” breathed Bilbo.


	12. Rivendell, Where Elrond Dwells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard doesn't like polticians, but he's learned a trick or two from dealing with them

The view was spellbinding, silence reigning for a few moments before the dwarves all began to quarrel at once. Shepard was dumbfounded at the volume and solidarity with which the dwarves protested the place and, meeting Bilbo’s eyes over the heads of several other party members, saw that he was not alone in his bewilderment. Even Bifur was complaining, making noises about “pointy-eared tree shaggers.” It took a fairly lengthy round of reasoning, yelling, cajoling, and persuading before the Company started to - slowly, and with much complaining - move towards the elvish buildings. 

Their arrival at Rivendell proper wasn’t any more auspicious. Gandalf had barely addressed a tall humanoid with long brown hair and pointed ears - an “elf”, probably, although Shepard hadn’t had the chance to confirm the fact - when a horn sounded from the main road into the valley. A double column of horsemen - or horse-elves, Shepard supposed - was cantering up said road towards them. 

At the first sound of the horn, the dwarves had pulled into a defensive circle with Bilbo shoved roughly into the center. Shepard couldn’t suppress a snort at the action; even from here he could see bows in the hand of nearly every rider. If they’d been thought unfriendly, they’d have been pincushions before the horses drew up close enough for the defensive posture to make a material difference.

Being circled by the horselves was a distinctly different and more threatening matter. Shepard made sure to keep his face neutral even as he nonchalantly rested one hand on his pistol and the air filled with the crackling scent of ozone. He hadn’t flared just yet, but if they started swinging he was ready.

Fortunately, it didn’t come to blows. An elf in splendid silver armor kneed his steed into the circle formed by the others and looked down imposingly at Gandalf. “Orcs encroach upon the borders of my land, Mithrandir; something they have not done for many, many years. You wouldn’t happen to know why, would you?” Gandalf coughed, an air of embarrassment in the sound. “Ah, that may have been us. Rather, they may or may not have been in pursuit of us while we traversed your land.” The elf snorted - a surprisingly elegant sound - and dismounted in one smooth motion. Shepard relaxed as the elf pulled Gandalf in for a hug, the ozone hanging in the air for a long moment before dissipating in the light breeze.

The other riders gathered up the reins of the now-riderless horse and departed quietly while the elf - whom Shepard assumed to be some sort of commander, given the armor and the way the other elves had deferred to him - looked over their motley crew for a moment that stretched like warm taffy. “Be welcome as my guests, all of you. We shall have a feast, and then you will be given quarter for as long as you need.”

“What did he say? Does he offer us insult?” Gloin growled, hefting his axe in a threatening fashion, and Shepard blinked before realizing his omni-tool’s translator was still providing real-time translation. “No, Master dwarf, he offers you dinner!” Gandalf responded with some asperity and Shepard facepalmed as a furious whispered discussion was held by the huddle of dwarves. It didn’t last long, however, as it had been most of a day since anyone had eaten.

Shepard took advantage of his longer legs to make sure he was one of the first ones to the dinner table, his stomach rumbling. Well, tables; given that there were more than 20 people eating there was an extra table with places for twelve - a table, surprisingly, that seemed to have been built with dwarves and hobbits in mind as it was considerably shorter than the other table. Shepard ended up sitting at the high table next to Gandalf - probably due to his height, if he had to guess, rather than any sort of protocol.

The dwarves did not appear to be grateful for the accommodation in table heights, and were even less impressed with the food on offer. The elves, it seemed, preferred a vegetarian diet as the vast majority of dishes presented to the tables were meatless. The only exception was a cobb salad with cold, roasted chicken pieces mixed in that was discreetly placed between Shepard and Bilbo. Shepard shrugged mentally and simply made sure he got as much protein as he could manage from the dishes on offer.

Bilbo and Shepard accounted for a fair number of plates of food between the two of them, but the rest of the Company - save Gandalf - merely picked at their food. “Why’s there so much  _ green _ ?” was an audible complaint from the lower table, poor Ori sounding honestly bewildered about the profusion of vegetable dishes. His eldest brother clucked a reply that Shepard couldn’t quite hear and Ori shoved his plate away, looking unhappy.

The elven leader - he’d introduced himself as Elrond on their way to dinner - waited politely for his guests to amuse themselves with the dinner before beginning conversation.

“So! Gandalf. What brings you, thirteen dwarves, a hobbit, and a Man to my doorstep?” Shepard mentally parsed Elrond’s question like the start of a bad “X walked into a bar…” joke and nearly inhaled a pecan. Both Elrond and Gandalf ignored the resultant choking and coughing while Bilbo pounded him on the back and looked worried.

“Well, now, that is something of a tale,” Gandalf responded and launched into a magnificently embroidered retelling of the journey so far. Shepard remembered there being a lot more rain and complaining and a lot less noble countenances and grandiose speeches. He snorted at the thought of the three-hour discussion of flatulence that had gone on one of the drearier days being included in such a tale, and was obliged to take a hasty sip of drink to suppress a fit of the giggles.

Elrond looked patiently amused at Gandalf’s performance and very politely didn’t call bullshit on any of it, which Shepard thought was a generous show of restraint on the elf-lord’s part. He only interjected once, when Gandalf spoke of finding the swords in the Troll-hoard. He leaned forward at that, brow furrowing slightly.

“May I see these swords?” The tone was polite but even Shepard could tell that it wasn’t really a request. Gandalf obligingly handed over the sword he’d picked up, while it took Balin kicking him under the table to make Thorin hold out his with a somewhat sullen expression. Elrond took Gandalf’s first, apparently deciding that letting Thorin stew was a good idea.

He unsheathed the blade and let the setting sun drip red honey down the blade as he examined the runes. “This is Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer, the sword of the King of Gondolin, thought lost to time.” The elf-lord sheathed the sword with a carefully neutral expression and handed it back to Gandalf - who took it with much more care than he’d handed it over with in the first place.

When Elrond reached out for Thorin’s sword, the dwarf all but shoved it into his hands. Elrond raised an eyebrow at Thorin’s rude behaviour, but refrained from calling him out on it. Instead, he unsheathed the blade and once again let it gleam as he read the runes. “This is Orcrist, the Goblin-Cleaver. Also forged in Gondolin; both blades will glow blue in the presence of orcs or goblins, as they are of elf-make, and you could not ask for a finer blade. May they serve you well.”

So saying, he handed the sword back to Thorin, who seemed less than pleased to be carrying an Elvish sword. Shepard blinked at the whole thing; he’d never seen another race calmly hand over artifacts - especially ones with as much history as these two seemed to have - without putting up a huge fuss. Even between human cultures, ancient artifacts tended to stay in the geographical areas they originated from as preserved history rather than be carted around by other peoples. 

He was knocked out of his musings when a sharp elbow impacted his side. Through watering eyes - Bilbo’d found a tender spot, dammit - he could see the hobbit trying to inconspicuously draw his “sword” under the table. Momentarily robbed of speech, Balin beat him to the punch and murmured, not unkindly, about the blank blade of the “sword.” “Swords are named for the great deeds they do in battle, lad. To be honest, I’m not certain your sword is truly a sword. It’s more like a letter opener.”

So saying, the dwarf turned back to carefully teasing chopped nuts from between leaves of kale in the salad he’d been presented with for his dinner. Bilbo, looking rather crestfallen, sheathed his sword and merely looked at his plate. Frowning internally at the dwarf’s insensitivity, Shepard nudged the hobbit’s shoulder and - rather more discreetly - drew his own combat knife. It was still in pretty good shape, his omni-blade usually being more convenient, but it was by fair plainer than the hobbit’s blade. It had been shaped for utility by Krogans - and perhaps a little Salarian aid on the side, though he couldn’t prove that - and looked like it. 

Seemingly cheered by the comparison, Bilbo returned to his newly-refilled plate with a will. The movement attracted Elrond’s attention, and the elf’s eyes pinned him with a stare that felt like being caught in the crosshairs of a sniper. “That is a unique blade; may I see it?” It sounded like a request, but Shepard knew a thinly-veiled order when he heard it. 

Still, it wasn’t like he had any reason to refuse so he shrugged and flipped the knife around to present it to Elrond hilt-first. The weapon looked odd in the elf’s grip. From the rubberized handle to the ruthlessly plain blade with nothing but a thin groove etched along one side to let blood flow while it was still jammed somewhere uncomfortable, it had an ugly plainness that typified most of the things made on Tuchanka.

It spent a surprisingly long time underneath Elrond’s intense scrutiny - there wasn’t that much to it, truth to tell - but the elf eventually handed it back with an odd light in his eyes.  “I’ve never seen anything like that, not in all my years. Wherever did you acquire such a blade?” The inquiry was polite, but the undertones of puzzlement were clear. 

Shepard leaned back and grinned at the memory of the party. “It was a gift from my foster son after we managed to get everyone out alive from the Collector Base. The thing’s saved my life a few times - omni-blades are all well and good but sometimes you need something more lasting, you know?” He gave the knife a flip that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Blasto vid - provided they hired someone actually competent for once who wouldn’t chop off their own fingers trying - before sliding the knife back into the sheath still concealed under the lip of the table.

Elrond, Gandalf, and Balin looked mystified while Bilbo looked impressed and Thorin glowered. He basked for a moment in the hobbit’s attention, but resisted the urge to grandstand any more. This wasn’t a seedy dive in Omega filled with wannabe mercs and stupid knife tricks didn’t belong anywhere else.

Elrond waited for a few more minutes, obviously hoping for more of the story, but when it became clear Shepard wasn’t going to be any more forthcoming he settled back with a slight sigh. “Well. Your son chose wisely, for it is a blade as sturdy and as useful as any forged in Ages past. May it continue to serve you well.” Gandalf’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline, and he gave Shepard a penetrating look.

Choosing to ignore the old man, Shepard sipped from his glass. Admittedly his preferences for alcohol tended toward strong liquors, but he’d been shangai’d into enough fancy parties to know a good vintage of wine when he drank one - and the vintage at this table was among the finest he’d ever tasted. He took another sip and swirled it around in his mouth, enjoying the flavor - and nearly spat it out when Bofur (of course, it had to be Bofur) stood up from the lower table and announced “Well, there’s no other help for it, lads!”

So saying, he hopped up on the table and started singing about beer and the moon. It was apparently a popular tune because the rest of the dwarves started singing along with him as he sang and danced on top of the table. Shepard slouched in his chair and absently started tapping along (it was a catchy tune) while he looked at his tablemates’ reactions. 

Bilbo had a look on his face somewhere between constipation and horror, and was trying to casually slide out of sight under the table; Balin had his head cradled in his hands and was resolutely refusing to look. Thorin looked somewhere between smug and irritated, while Gandalf was clearly Done with the dwarves’ nonsense. Elrond looked mildly put out, but there was a glint in his eye that Shepard rather thought meant he didn’t find this idiocy as unpleasant as he wanted to. The really priceless looks were the unbridled horrified expressions on the other elves’ faces, the ones who were trying to rescue crockery and had spent the time previous to this serving food and wine. 

Shepard’s amusement was abruptly curtailed as a flying roll bounced off his head. Narrowing his eyes, he glared at the lower table. The dwarves seated there, unrepentant, continued what was starting to look like a decent-sized food fight. He saw the next roll coming and batted it out of the air before impact. Glancing down at Thorin, Shepard noted that while the king-in-exile looked steamed, he also didn’t appear to be gearing up to stop this nonsense. 

Deciding that antagonizing the people who had power over where you slept was an exercise in stupidity, Shepard leaned back and loosed a jaw-cracking yawn. Sure enough, a number of other yawns rippled through the assembled company, and he made a show of stretching his shoulders for verisimilitude. “I gotta say, I don’t know about anyone else but I’m beat. I could do with a bath and a nap.”

The flying food petered off to a stop as the other dwarves took stock and realized that beds and baths were definitely welcome in the near future - the last holdouts were, naturally, Fili and Kili who continued to beam each other with artichoke hearts until Thorin roared at them to stop.Elrond looked amused, an appreciative gleam in his eye as he subtly dipped his head in acknowledgement of Shepard’s manipulation.

“My servants will show you to your quarters, and to the baths should you so wish.” Elrond stood as he spoke, signalling dark-haired elves in fine robes to do his bidding. Some started to clear away the remains of the dinner while others were clearly waiting for the dwarves to get themselves in some form of order to follow.

Shepard purposefully stayed towards the rear of the group, waiting for just the right moment to drop back a bit. No sooner had he done so than an elf materialized at his elbow. “Do you have any clothes I can borrow for tonight? I only have the ones I’m wearing and I’d like to wash them in the near future.” He kept his voice low as he spoke, not wanting to offend his travelling companions but also really wanting to not smell like troll BO.

The elf, too dignified to beam, smiled slightly and bowed. “Fresh clothes will be waiting for you in your room. If you so desire, you can leave your,” the elf paused and looked at Shepard’s patchy armor-jumpsuit “current clothing outside your room, and it will be cleaned for you to the best of our abilities.”

Shepard inclined his head. “Thank you very much. You are very generous with your hospitality.” It was rare enough that he got a chance to get clean in the field, let alone get his laundry done. He certainly wasn’t going to refuse the service when it was offered to him. 

Shepard spent the next several hours in paradise, the warm water a balm that complemented his full stomach nicely. He wasn’t too sure how the plumbing worked, but it was enough for now that it did work and he had as much hot water as he could want. He also had intermittent company, the dwarves coming through in twos and threes to get clean, but they seemed to find the architecture off-putting and the various soaps and oils highly suspicious and tended to get clean as fast as they could and leave just as abruptly.

Shepard himself felt like a prune by the time he made his way back to the room the elves from earlier had showed him. The high collar on the robe was a bit stifling, but the quality was beyond reproach. The same went for the sheets on the bed, though the bed itself wasn’t as comfortable as the one he shared with Kaidan in Vancouver. He suspected that no bed would be quite so comfortable as that one, to him; it really was company over quality. 

With a smile on his lips at the thought of Kaidan being there with him - and a slightly uncomfortable twist in his stomach as he remembered why the Canadian wasn’t - Shepard drifted off to sleep.


End file.
